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[Page  42.1 

"selecting   a   specially    fine   product    of   the  'BRITISH    QUEEN  '   TAUIETY, 
HE   STOOD    UP    AND    HELD    IT    DY   THE    STEM    TO    HER   MOUTH." 


TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES 


A   PUKE    WOMAN 

Faithfully    Presented 


By  THOMAS  HARDY 

AUTHOR  OF 
A     GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES  "     "  THE    AVOODLANDERS "    ETC. 


^^ Poor  wozmded  name!  my  bosom,  as  a  bed. 
Shall  lodge  thee.'" 

W.  Shakespeare. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  AXD  COMPLETELY  REVISED  EDITIOS 


NEW   YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1893 


Copyright,  1891,  by  Harper  «S:  Brothers. 
Coi3yright,  1892,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


p[)a5c  tl)e  i^irst. 


PAGE 


THE   MAIDEN,  I.-XI 1 


lase  tl)e  Scconb. 

MAIDEN  NO  MORE,  XII.-XV 81 

THE   RALLY,  XYI.-XXIV 112 

THE  CONSEQUENCE,  XXV.-XXXIV 172 

pi)asc  l\]c  i'iftli. 

THE   WOMAN  PAYS,  XXXV.-XLIV 258 

THE  CONVERT,  XLV.-LII 348 

FULFILMENT,  LIII.-LIX 420 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  SELECTING  A  SPECIALLY  FINE  PRODUCT  OF  THE  *  BRITISH  QUEEN ' 
VARIETY,    HE    STOOD    UP    AND    HELD    IT   BY   THE    STEM   TO   HER 

MOUTH  " Frontispiece 

"  so    MATTERS    STOOD    WHEN    TESS    OPENED    THE    DOOR    AND   PAUSED 

UPON   THE    MAT    WITHIN    IT,  SURVEYING   THE    SCENE"      .       .       .    FuceS p.     16 

"TESS  followed  slowly  IN  THEIR  REAR,  AND  ENTERED  THE 
BARTON  BY  THE  OPEN  GATE  THROUGH  WHICH  THEY  HAD  EN- 
TERED  BEFORE   her" "  118 

"  '  WHAT    MAKES    YOU    DRAW    OFF    IN    THAT   WAY,  TESS  ?'    SAID    HE, 

'ARE    YOU    AFRAID?'" "  138 

"he    WENT    QUICKLY    TOWARDS    THE   DESIRE    OF   HIS    EYES  "  .       .       .  "  170 

"SHE   FLUNG    HERSELF   DOWN    UPON    THE    RUSTLING   UNDERGROWTH 

OF   SPEAR-GRASS    AS    UPON    A    BED  " "         202 

"they  hung  ABOUT  HER  IN  THEIR  FLOWING  WHITE  NIGHT- 
GOWNS"        "       226 


"  *  IN  THE   NAME  OP  HEAVEN,  FORGIVE  ME  !'    SHE  WHISPERED  "   .       .  "  260 

"his   father   and    MOTHER    WERE    BOTH    IN    THE    DRAWING-ROOM "  "  298 

"  THE    PREACHER    WAS    ALEC   d'uRBERVILLE  " "  348 

"'what    shall    we    do    NOW,  TESS?'" "  416 


EXPLANATOEY  NOTE  TO  THE  FIEST 

EDITION. 

The  main  portion  of  tlie  following  story  appeared — with 
slight  modifications — in  the  GrapMc  newspaper  and  Har- 
pei^s  Bazar ;  other  chapters,  more  especially  addressed  to 
adnlt  readers,  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  and  the  Kational 
Ohserver,  as  episodic  sketches.  My  thanks  are  tendered  to 
the  editors  and  proprietors  of  those  periodicals  for  enabhng 
me  now  to  piece  the  trnnk  and  hmbs  of  the  novel  together, 
and  print  it  complete,  as  originally  written  two  years  ago. 

I  will  just  add  that  the  story  is  sent  out  in  all  sincerity 
of  purpose,  as  an  attempt  to  give  artistic  form  to  a  true 
sequence  of  things ;  and  in  respect  of  the  book's  opinions  I 
would  ask  any  too  genteel  reader  who  cannot  endnre  to 
have  said  what  everybody  nowadays  thinks  and  feels,  to 
remember  a  weU-worn  sentence  of  St.  Jerome's :  ''If  an 
offence  come  out  of  the  truth,  better  is  it  that  the  offence 
come  than  that  the  truth  be  concealed." 

T.  H. 

November,  1891. 


PREFACE   TO   THE   FIFTH   (ENGLISH) 

EDITION.* 

This  novel  being  one  wherein  the  great  campaign  of  the 
heroine  begins  after  an  event  in  her  experience  wliich  has 
usually  been  treated  as  extinguishing  her,  in  the  aspect  of 
protagonist  at  least,  and  as  the  virtual  ending  of  her  career 
and  hopes,  it  was  quite  contrary  to  avowed  conventions  that 
the  public  should  welcome  the  book,  and  agree  with  me  in 
holding  that  there  was  something  more  to  be  said  in  fiction 
than  had  been  said  about  the  shaded  side  of  a  well-known 
catastrophe.  But  the  responsive  spirit  in  w^hich  Tess  of  the 
J>'  UrherviUes  has  been  received  by  the  readers  of  England 
and  America  would  seem  to  prove  that  the  plan  of  laying 
down  a  story  on  the  lines  of  tacit  opinion,  instead  of  mak- 
ing it  to  square  with,  the  merely  vocal  formulae  of  society, 
is  not  altogether  a  wTong  one,  even  when  exemplified  in  so 
unequal  and  partial  an  achievement  as  the  present.  For 
this  responsiveness  I  cannot  refrain  from  expressing  my 
thanks ;  and  my  regfet  is  that,  in  a  world  where  one  so 
often  hungers  in  vain  for  friendship,  where  even  not  to  be 
wilfuUy  misunderstood  is  felt  as  a  kindness,  I  shall  never 
meet  in  person  these  appreciative  readers,  male  and  female, 
and  shake  them  by  the  hand. 

I  include  amongst  them  the  reviewers — by  far  the  ma- 
jority— who  have  so  generously  welcomed  the  tale.  Their 
w^ords  show  that  they,  Uke  the  others,  have  only  too  largely 
repaired  my  defects  of  narration  by  their  own  imaginative 
intuition. 

Nevertheless,  though  the  novel  was  intended  to  be  neither 

*  Eighth  American  Edition. 


X  PREFACE. 

didactic  nor  aggressive,  but  in  the  scenic  parts  to  be  repre- 
sentative simply,  and  in  the  contemplative  to  be  oftener 
charged  with  impressions  than  with  opinions,  there  have 
been  objectors  both  to  the  matter  and  to  the  rendering. 

Some  of  these  maintain  a  conscientions  difference  of 
sentiment  concerning,  among  other  things,  subjects  fit  for 
art,  and  reveal  an  inability  to  associate  the  idea  of  the  title- 
adjective  with  any  bnt  the  hcensed  and  derivative  meaning 
which  has  resulted  to  it  from  the  ordinances  of  civilization. 
They  thus  ignore,  not  only  all  Nature's  claims,  all  aesthetic 
claims  on  the  word,  but  even  the  spiritual  interpretation 
afforded  by  the  finest  side  of  Christianity ;  and  drag  in,  as  a 
vital  point,  the  acts  of  a  woman  in  her  last  dtiys  of  despera- 
tion, when  all  her  doings  he  outside  her  normal  character. 
Others  dissent  on  grounds  which  are  intrinsically  no  more 
than  an  assertion  that  the  novel  embodies  the  views  of  life 
prevalent  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  not 
those  of  an  earlier  and  simpler  generation — an  assertion 
which  I  can  only  hope  may  be  well  founded.  Let  me  repeat 
that  a  novel  is  an  impression,  not  an  argument ;  and  there 
the  matter  must  rest;  as  one  is  reminded  by  a  passage 
which  occurs  in  the  letters  of  Schiller  to  Goethe  on  judges 
of  this  class :  "  They  are  those  w^ho  seek  only  their  own  ideas 
in  a  representation,  and  prize  that  which  should  be  as 
higher  than  what  is.  The  cause  of  the  dispute,  therefore, 
lies  in  the  ver}^  fij'st  principles,  and  it  would  be  utterly  im- 
possil)le  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  them."  And 
again :  ''  As  soon  as  I  observe  that  any  one,  when  judging 
of  poetical  representations,  considers  anything  more  im- 
portant than  the  inner  Necessity  and  Truth,  I  have  done 
with  him." 

In  the  introductory  words  to  the  fii'st  edition  I  suggested 
the  possible  advent  of  the  genteel  person  who  would  not  be 
able  to  endure  the  tone  of  these  pages.  That  person  duly 
appeared,  mostly  mixed  up  with  the  aforesaid  objectors. 
In  another  of  his  forms  he  felt  upset  that  it  was  not  possi- 


PREFACE.  xi 

ble  for  liim  to  read  the  book  tlirougli  tliree  times,  owing  to 
my  not  having  made  that  critical  effort  which  "  alone  can 
prove  the  salvation  of  such  an  one/^  In  another,  he  objected 
to  such  vnlgar  articles  as  the  devil's  pitchfork,  a  lodging- 
honse  carving-knife,  and  a  shame-bought  parasol  appearing 
in  a  respectable  story.  In  another  place  he  was  a  gentle- 
man who  tiu'ned  Christian  for  half  an  hour  the  better  to 
express  his  grief  that  a  disrespectful  phrase  about  the  Im- 
mortals shoidd  have  been  used ;  though  the  same  innate 
gentility  compelled  him  to  excuse  the  author  in  w^ords  of 
pity  that  one  cannot  be  too  thankfid  for :  "  He  does  but  give 
us  of  his  best."  I  can  assui'e  this  great  critic  that  to  exclaim 
iUogically  against  the  gods,  singular  or  plural,  is  not  such 
an  original  sin  of  mine  as  he  seems  to  imagine.  True,  it 
may  have  some  local  originahty ;  though  if  Shakespeare 
were  an  authority  on  history,  which  perhaps  he  is  not,  I 
could  show  that  the  sin  was  introduced  into  Wessex  as  early 
as  the  Heptarchy  itself.  Says  Glo'ster  to  Lear,  otherwise 
Ina,  king  of  that  country : 


It 


As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods ; 
Tliey  Idll  us  for  their  sport." 


The  remaining  tw^o  or  three  manipulators  of  Tess  were 
of  the  sort  whom  most  winters  and  readers  would  gladly 
forget :  professed  hterary  boxers,  who  put  on  their  convic- 
tions for  the  occasion ;  modern  '^  Hammers  of  Heretics  '^ ; 
sworn  discoui'agers  of  effort,  ever  on  the  watch  to  prevent 
the  tentative  half-success  from  becoming  the  whole  success ; 
W'ho  pervert  plain  meanings,  and  grow^  personal  under  the 
name  of  practising  the  great  historical  method.  However, 
they  may  have  causes  to  advance,  pri^dleges  to  guard,  tra- 
ditions to  keep  going;  some  of  w^hich  a  mere  tale-teller, 
who  writes  down  how  the  things  of  the  world  strike  him, 
without  any  ulterior  intentions  whatever,  has  overlooked, 
and  may  by  pure  inadvertence  have  run  foul  of  when  in 


xii  PREFACE. 

the  least  aggressive  mood.  Perhaps  some  passing  percep- 
tiorij  the  outcome  of  a  dream-hour,  would,  if  generally  acted 
on^  cause  such  an  assailant  considerable  inconvenience 
with  respect  to  position,  interests,  family,  servant,  ox,  ass, 
neighbor,  or  neighbor's  wife.  He  therefore  valiantly  hides 
his  personality  behind  a  publisher's  shutters,  and  cries 
"Shame  ! "  So  densely  is  the  world  thronged  that  any  shift- 
ing of  positions,  even  the  best  warranted  advance,  hurts 
somebody's  heels.  Such  shiftings  of teix  begin  in  sentiment, 
and  such  sentiment  sometimes  begins  in  a  novel. 

T.  H. 

July,  1892. 


TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 


THE    MAIDEN. 


I. 

On  ail  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  May  a  middle-aged 
man  was  walking  homeward  from  Shaston  to  the  village 
of  Mario tt,  in  the  adjoining  Vale  of  Blakemore  or  Black- 
moor.  The  i^air  of  legs  that  carried  him  were  rickety,  and 
there  was  a  bias  in  his  gait  that  inclined  him  somewhat  to 
the  left  of  a  straight  line.  He  occasionally  gave  a  smart 
nod,  as  if  in  confii*mation  of  some  opinion,  though  he  was 
not  thinking  of  anything  in  particular.  An  empty  egg- 
basket  was  slung  upon  his  arm,  the  nap  of  his  hat  was 
ruffled,  a  patch  being  quite  worn  away  at  its  brim  where 
his  thumb  came  in  taking  it  off.  Presently  he  was  met  by 
an  elderly  parson  astride  of  a  gray  mare,  who,  as  he  rode, 
hummed  a  wandering  tune. 

"  Good-night  t'ye,"  said  the  man  with  the  basket. 

"  Good-night,  Sir  John,'^  said  the  parson. 

The  pedestrian,  after  another  pace  or  two,  halted,  and 

turned  round. 
1 


2  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBEm^LLES. 

''Now,  sir,  begging  your  pardon,  we  met  last  market-day 
on  this  road  about  this  time,  and  I  said  '  Good-night,'  and 
you  made  reply,  '■  Good-night,  Sir  John,'  as  now." 

"  I  did,"  said  the  parson, 

'^  And  once  before  that — near  a  month  ago." 

''  I  mav  have." 

''  Then  what  might  your  meaning  be  in  calling  me  '  Sir 
John '  these  different  times,  when  I  be  plain  Jack  Durbey^ 
field,  the  haggler  ? " 

The  parson  rode  a  step  or  two  nearer. 

"  It  was  only  my  whim,"  he  said  :  and,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  :  "  It  was  on  account  of  a  discovery  I  made  some 
little  time  ago,  whilst  I  was  hunting  up  pedigrees  for  the 
new  county  history.  I  am  Parson  Tringham,  the  antiquary, 
of  Stagfoot  Lane.  Don't  you  really  know,  Durbeyfield, 
that  you  are  the  lineal  representative  of  the  ancient  and 
knightly  family  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  who  derive  their 
descent  from  Sir  Pagan  D'Urberville,  that  renoT^aied  knight 
who  came  from  Normandy  mtli  WiUiam  the  Conqueror, 
as  appears  by  Battle  Abbey  Roll  ? " 

''  Never  heard  it  before,  sir." 

"  WeU,  it's  true.  Throw  up  your  chin  a  moment,  so  that 
I  may  catch  the  profile  of  yom'  face  better.  Yes,  that's  the 
D'Urberville  nose  and  chin — a  little  debased.  Your  ances- 
tor was  one  of  the  twelve  knights  who  assisted  the  Lord  of 
Estremavilla  in  Normandy  in  his  conquest  of  Glamorgan- 
shire. Branches  of  vom*  familv  held  manors  over  all  this 
part  of  England ;  their  names  appear  in  the  Pipe  Rolls  in 
the  time  of  King  Stephen.  In  the  reign  of  King  John  one 
of  them  was  rich  enough  to  give  a  manor  to  the  Knights 
Hospitallers  ;  and  in  Edward  the  Second's  time  your  fore- 
father Brian  was  summoned  to  Westminster  to  attend  the 
great  Council  there.  You  declined  a  little  in  Oliver  Crom- 
well's time,  but  to  no  serious  extent,  and  in  Charles  the 
Second's  reign  yoii  were  made  Knights  of  the  Royal  O^k 
for  your  loyalty.     Aye,  there  have  been  generations  of 


THE   MAIDEN.  3 

Sir  Johns  among  you,  and  if  kuigiitliood  were  hereditary, 
like  a  baronetcy,  as  it  practically  was  in  old  times,  when 
men  were  knighted  from  father  to  son,  you  would  be  Sir 
John  now." 

^'  You  don't  say  so  !  " 

^'In  short,"  concluded  the  parson,  decisively  smacking 
his  leg  with  his  switch,  "  there's  hardly  such  another  family 
in  England  !  " 

'^  Daze  my  eyes,  and  isn't  there  ? "  said  Durbeyfield. 
"  And  here  have  I  been  knocking  about,  year  after  year, 
from  pillar  to  post,  as  if  I  was  no  more  than  the  common- 
est feller  in  the  parish.  .  .  .  And  how  long  hev  this  news 
about  me  been  knowed,  Pa'son  Tringham "? " 

The  clergyman  explained  that,  as  far  as  he  was  aware, 
it  had  quite  died  out  of  knowledge,  and  could  hardly  be 
said  to  be  known  at  all.  His  own  investigations  had  begun 
on  a  day  in  the  preceding  spring  when,  having  been  en- 
gaged in  tracing  the  ^dcissitudes  of  the  D'Urberville  family, 
he  had  observed  Dm-beyfiekVs  name  on  his  wagon,  and  had 
thereupon  been  led  to  make  inquiiies  al)Out  his  father  and 
grandfather,  till  he  had  no  doubt  on  the  subject.  "At  first 
I  resolved  not  to  distiu'b  you  with  such  a  useless  piece  of 
information,"  said  he.  "However,  our  impulses  are  too 
strong  for  oiu*  judgment  sometimes.  I  thought  you  might 
perhaps  know  something  of  it  all  the  while." 

"Well,  I  have  heard  once  or  twice,  'tis  true,  that  my 
family  had  seen  better  days  before  they  came  to  Black- 
moor.  But  I  took  no  notice  o't,  thinking  it  to  mean  that 
we  had  once  kept  two  horses  where  we  now  keep  only  one. 
I've  got  a  wold  silver  spoon  at  home,  too ;  and  likewise  a 
gi-aven  seal;  but.  Lord,  what's  a  spoon  and  seal?  .  .  . 
And  to  think  that  I  and  these  noble  D'Urbervilles  was  one 
flesh.  'Twas  said  that  my  grandfer  had  secrets,  and  didn't 
care  to  talk  of  where  he  came  from.  .  .  .  And  where  do 
we  raise  our  smoke,  now,  parson,  make  so  bold ;  I  mean, 
where  do  we  D'Urber\dlles  live  ? " 


4  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  You  don't  live  anywhere.  You  are  extinct— as  a  county 
family." 

'^  That's  bad." 

"Yes — what  the  mendacious  family  chronicles  call  ex- 
tinct in  the  male  line — that  is,  gone  down — gone  under." 

"  And  Avhere  do  we  he  f " 

"At  Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill :  rows  and  rows  of  you 
in  your  vaults,  with  yoiu^  effigies  under  Purbeck-marble 
canopies." 

"  And  where  be  our  famil}^  mansions  and  estates  ? " 

"  You  haven't  anv." 

"  O  !     No  lands  neither  ? " 

"  None ;  though  you  once  had  'em  in  abundance,  as  I 
said,  for  jouv  family  consisted  of  numerous  branches.  In 
this  county  there  was  a  seat  of  yours  at  Kingsbere,  and 
another  at  Sherton,  and  another  at  Millpond,  and  another 
at  Lullstead,  and  another  at  Wellbridge." 

"  And  shall  we  ever  come  into  our  own  again  ? " 

"  Ah,  that  I  can't  teU." 

"  And  what  had  I  better  do  about  it,  sir  ? ''  asked  Durbey- 
field,  after  a  pause. 

"O — nothing,  nothing;  except  chasten  yourself  Avith 
the  thought  of  'how  are  the  mighty  fallen.'  It  is  a  fact 
of  some  interest  to  the  local  historian  and  genealogist, 
nothing  more.  There  are  several  families  among  the 
cottagers  of  this  county  of  almost  equal  lustre.  Good- 
night." 

"  But  you'll  turn  back  and  have  a  quart  of  beer  wi'  me 
on  the  strength  o't,  Pa'son  Tringham  ?  There's  a  very 
pretty  brew  in  tap  at  The  Pure  Drop — though,  to  be  sure, 
not  so  good  as  at  Rolliver's." 

"  No,  thank  you — not  this  evening,  Durbeyfield.  You've 
had  enough  already."  Concluding  thus,  the  parson  rode 
on  liis  way,  with  doubts  as  to  his  discretion  in  retailing  this 
curious  bit  of  lore. 

When  he  was  gone  Durbeyfield  walked  a  few  steps  in  a 


THE   INIAIDEX.  5 

profound  reverie,  and  then  sat  down  npon  the  gi'assy  bank 
by  the  roadside,  depositing  his  basket  before  liini.  In  a 
few  niinntes  a  yonth  appeared  in  the  distance,  walking 
in  the  same  direction  as  that  which  had  been  pnrsned  by 
Dnrbeyfield.  The  latter,  on  seeing  him,  held  np  his  hand, 
and  the  lad  qnickened  his  pace  and  came  near. 

^'  Boy,  take  np  that  basket !  I  want  'ee  to  go  on  an 
errand  for  me." 

The  lath-like  stripling  frowned.  "Who  be  yon,  then, 
John  Diu'be^^eld,  that  order  me  abont  and  call  me  bov? 
Yon  know  my  name  as  well  as  I  know  yours  !  " 

"  Do  you — do  you  ?  That's  the  secret — that's  the  secret ! 
Now  o])ey  my  orders,  and  take  the  message  I'm  going  to 
charge  'ee  wi'.  .  .  .  Well,  Fred,  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  the  secret  is  that  I'm  one  of  a  noble  race — it  has  been 
just  found  out  by  me  this  present  afternoon,  p.m."  And 
as  he  made  the  announcement,  Dnrbeyfield,  dechning  from 
his  sitting  position,  luxuriously  stretched  himself  out  upon 
the  bank  among  the  daisies. 

The  lad  stood  before  Dnrbeyfield,  and  contemplated  his 
length  from  crown  to  toe. 

"  Sir  John  D'Urberville — that's  who  I  be,"  continued  the 
prostrate  man.  "  That  is  if  knights  were  baronets — which 
they  be.  'Tis  recorded  in  history  aU  about  me.  Dost 
know  of  such  a  place,  lad,  as  Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill  ? " 

"  Ees.     I've  been  there  to  Greenhill  Fair." 

"Well,  under  the  church  of  that  city  there  lie " 

"'Tisn't  a  city,  the  place  I  mean;  leastwise  'twasn't 
when  I  was  there — 'twas  a  little  one-eyed,  blinking  sort  o' 
place." 

^'  Never  you  mind  the  place,  boy ;  that's  not  the  questioii 
l^efore  us.  Under  the  church  of  that  parish  lie  my  ances- 
tors— hundreds  of  'em — in  coats  of  mail  and  jewels,  in 
great  lead  coffins  weighing  tons  and  tons.  There's  not  a 
man  in  the  county  o'  Wessex  that's  got  grander  and  nobler 
skellingtons  in  his  family  than  I." 


6  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

''Now  take  uj)  that  basket,  and  go  on  to  Marlott,  and 
wlien  you  come  to  The  Pure  Drop  Inn,  tell  'em  to  send  a 
horse  and  carriage  to  me  immediately,  to  carry  me  home. 
And  in  the  bottom  o'  the  carriage  they  be  to  put  a  noggin 
o'  rum  in  a  small  bottle,  and  chalk  it  uj)  to  my  account. 
And  when  youVe  done  that,  go  on  to  my  house  with  the 
basket,  and  tell  my  wife  to  put  away  that  washing,  because 
she  needn't  finish  it,  and  wait  till  I  come  home,  as  I  have 
news  to  tell  her." 

As  the  lad  stood  in  a  dul3ious  attitude,  Diu'beyfield  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  shilling,  one  of  the 
comparatively  few  that  he  possessed.  ''Here's  for  your 
labor,  lad." 

This  made  a  real  diiference  in  the  young  man's  apprecia- 
tion of  the  position.  "Yes,  Sir  John.  Thank  you.  Any- 
thing else  I  can  do  for  'ee.  Sir  John  ? " 

"  Tell  'em  at  home  that  I  should  like  for  supper — well, 
lamb's  fry  if  they  can  get  it ;  and  if  they  can't,  black-pot ; 
and  if  they  can't  get  that — well,  chitterlings  will  do." 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

The  boy  took  up  the  basket,  and  as  he  set  out  the  notes 
of  a  brass  band  were  heard  from  the  dii'ection  of  the  \dllage. 
"  What's  that  ? "  said  Durbevfield.     "  Not  on  account  o'  I  ? " 

"'Tis  the  women's  club-wall^ing,  Sii'  John.  Why,  your 
daughter  is  one  o'  the  members." 

"To  be  sure ;  I'd  quite  forgot  it  in  my  thoughts  of 
greater  things.  Well,  vamp  on  to  Marlott,  will  'ee,  and 
order  that  carriage,  and  maybe  I'll  drive  round  and  inspect 
the  club." 

The  lad  departed,  and  Durbeyfield  lay  waiting  on  the 
grass  and  daisies  in  the  evening  sun.  Not  a  soul  passed 
that  way  for  a  long  while,  and  the  faint  notes  of  the  band 
were  the  only  human  sounds  audible  Tvithin  the  rim  of 
blue  hills. 


THE  3IAIDEX. 


II. 

The  village  of  Marlott  lay  amid  tlie  nortlieastern  undu- 
lations of  the  beautiful  Vale  of  Blakemore  or  Blackmoor 
aforesaid,  an  engii'dled  and  secluded  region,  for  the  most 
part  untrodden  as  yet  by  toui-ist  or  landscape-painter, 
though  within  a  four  hours'  journey  from  London. 

It  is  a  yale  whose  acquaintance  is  best  made  by  ^dewing 
it  from  the  summits  of  the  hills  that  surround  it — except 
perhaps  during  the  droughts  of  summer.  An  unguided 
ramble  into  its  recesses  in  bad  weather  is  apt  to  engender 
dissatisfaction  with  its  narrow,  tortuous,  and  miry  ways. 

This  fertile  and  sheltered  tract  of  country,  in  which  the 
fields  are  neyer  brown  and  the  springs  neyer  dry,  is 
bounded  on  the  south  by  the  bold  chalk  ridge  that  embraces 
the  prominences  of  Hambledon  Hill,  Bulbarrow,  Nettle- 
combe-Tout,  Dogbury,  High  Stoy,  and  Bubb  DoTvm.  The 
trayeller  from  the  coast,  who,  after  plodding  for  a  score 
of  miles  oyer  calcareous  downs  and  corn-lands,  suddenly 
reaches  the  yerge  of  one  of  these  escarpments,  is  surj^rised 
and  delighted  to  behold,  extended  Like  a  map  beneath  him, 
a  country  differing  absolutely  from  that  which  he  has 
passed  through.  Behind  him  the  hiUs  are  open,  the  sun 
blazes  do^yn  upon  fields  so  large  as  to  giye  an  unenclosed 
character  to  the  landscape,  the  lanes  are  white,  the  hedges 
low  and  plashed,  the  atmosphere  colorless.  Here,  in  the 
yalley,  the  world  seems  to  be  constructed  upon  a  smaller 
and  more  delicate  scale ;  the  fields  are  mere  paddocks,  so 
reduced  that  from  this  height  their  hedge-rows  appear  a 
net-work  of  dark  green  threads  overspreading  the  paler 
green  of  the  grass.  The  atmosphere  beneath  is  languorous, 
and  is  so  tinged  mth  azure  that  what  artists  call  the  mid- 
dle distance  partakes  also  of  that  hue,  while  the  horizon 


8  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

beyond  is  of  the  cleej)est  ultramarine.  Arable  lands  are 
few  and  limited ;  with  but  slight  exceptions  the  prospect  is 
a  broad  rich  mass  of  grass  and  trees,  mantling  minor  hills 
and  dales  within  the  major.     Such  is  the  Vale  of  Blackmoor. 

The  district  is  of  historic^  no  less  than  of  topographical 
interest.  The  vale  was  known  in  former  times  as  the 
Forest  of  White  Hart,  from  a  curious  legend  of  King 
Henry  the  Third's  reign,  in  which  the  killing  by  a  certain 
Thomas  de  la  L^md  of  a  beautiful  white  hart  which  the 
King  had  run  down  and  spared,  was  made  the  occasion  of 
a  hea^y  fine.  In  those  days,  and  till  comparatively  recent 
times,  the  countrv  was  densely  wooded.  Even  now  traces 
of  its  earlier  condition  are  to  be  found  in  the  old  oak  copses 
and  irregular  belts  of  timber  that  yet  survive  upon  its 
slopes,  and  the  hollo w-trunked  trees  that  shade  so  many  of 
its  pastures. 

The  forests  have  departed,  but  some  old  customs  of  their 
shades  remain.  Many,  however,  linger  only  in  a  metamor- 
phosed or  disguised  form.  The  May-day  dance,  for  in- 
stance, was  to  be  discerned  on  the  afternoon  under  notice, 
in  the  guise  of  the  club  revel,  or  ''club- walking,"  as  it  Avas 
there  called. 

It  was  an  interesting  event  to  the  younger  inhabitants  of 
Marlott,  though  the  real  interest  was  not  observed  b}^  the 
participators  in  the  ceremony.  Its  singularity  lay  less  in 
the  fact  that  there  was  still  retained  a  custom  of  walking 
in  procession  and  dancing  on  each  anniversary  than  that 
the  members  were  solely  women.  In  men's  clubs  such 
celebrations  were,  though  expiring,  less  uncommon ;  but 
either  the  natural  shyness  of  the  softer  sex,  or  a  sarcastic 
attitude  on  the  part  of  male  relatives,  had  denuded  such 
women's  clubs  as  remained  (if  any  other  did)  of  this  their 
glory  and  consummation.  Tlie  club  of  Marlott  alone  lived 
to  uphold  the  local  Cerealia.  It  liad  walked  for  hundreds 
of  years,  if  not  as  benefit-club,  as  votive  sisterhood  of  some 
soi-t ;  and  it  walked  still. 

The  banded  ones  were  all  dressed  in  white  c:owns — a  G'f^v 


THE  MAIDEN.  9 

survival  from  Old  Style  clays,  when  cheerfulness  and  May- 
time  were  sjTionyms — days  before  the  habit  of  taking  long 
views  had  reduced  emotions  to  a  monotonous  average. 
Theii-  fii'st  exhibition  of  themselves  was  in  a  processional 
march  of  two  and  two  round  the  parish.  Ideal  and  real 
clashed  shghtly  as  the  sun  lit  up  their  figures  against  the 
gTeen  hedges  and  creeper-laced  house-fronts ;  f or,  though  the 
whole  troop  wore  white  garments,  no  two  whites  were  ahke 
among  them.  Some  gowns  were  purely  blanched;  some 
had  a  bluish  pallor;  some  worn  by  the  older  characters 
(which  had  possibly  lain  by  folded  for  many  a  year)  in- 
clined to  a  cadaverous  tint,  and  to  Georgian  style. 

In  addition  to  the  distinction  of  a  white  frock,  every 
woman  and  gii4  carried  in  her  right  hand  a  peeled  willow 
wand,  and  in  her  left  a  bunch  of  white  flowers.  The  peel- 
ing of  the  former,  and  the  selection  of  the  latter,  had  been 
an  operation  of  personal  care. 

There  were  a  few  middle-aged  and  even  elderly  women  in 
the  train,  theii'  silver  mry  hair  and  -^Tinkled  faces,  scoiu-ged 
by  time  and  trouble,  ha\ing  almost  a  grotesque,  certainly  a 
pathetic,  appearance  in  such  a  jaunty  situation.  In  a  true 
^'iew,  perhaps,  there  was  more  to  be  gathered  and  told  of 
these  anxious  and  experienced  ones,  to  whom  the  years 
were  drawing  nigh  when  each  should  say,  "I  have  no 
pleasure  in  them,"  than  of  the  juvenile  members.  But  let 
the  elder  be  passed  over  here  for  those  under  whose  bodices 
the  life  throbbed  quick  and  warm. 

The  young  gu-ls  formed,  indeed,  the  majority  of  the 
band,  and  their  heads  of  luxuriant  hair  reflected  in  the 
sunshine  every  tone  of  gold  and  black  and  brown.  Some 
had  beautiful  eves,  others  a  beautiful  nose,  others  a  beauti- 
f ul  mouth  and  figure  ;  few,  if  any,  had  all.  A  difficulty  of 
arranging  their  lips  in  this  crude  exposure  to  public 
scrutiny,  an  inability  to  balance  their  heads  and  to  disasso- 
ciate self -consciousness  from  their  features,  were  apparent 
in  them,  and  showed  that  they  were  genuine  country  girls, 
unaccustomed  to  manv  eves. 


10  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

And  as  each  and  all  of  tliem  were  warmed  witliout  by 
the  sun,  so  each  had  a  private  little  sun  for  her  soulto 
Ijask  in— ^some  dream,  some  affection,  some  hobby,  at  least 
some  remote  and  distant  hope,  which,  though  perhaps 
star\dng  to  nothing,  still  hved  on,  as  hopes  will.  Thus 
they  were  all  cheerful,  and  many  of  them  merry. 

They  came  round  by  The  Piu'e  Drop  Inn,  and  were 
turning  out  of  the  high-road  to  pass  through  a  mcket-gate 
into  the  meadows,  when  one  of  the  women  said : 

"  The  Lord-a-Lord !  Whv,  Tess  Durbeyfield,  if  there 
isn't  thy  father  riding  home  in  a  carriage  ! '' 

A  young  member  of  the  band  turned  her  head  at  the 
exclamation.  She  was  a  fine,  handsome  gii'l — not  hand- 
somer than  some  others,  certainly — but  her  mobile  jDCony 
mouth  and  large  innocent  eyes  added  eloquence  to  color 
and  shape.  She  wore  a  red  ribbon  in  her  hair,  and  was  the 
only  one  of  the  white  company  who  could  boast  of  such  a 
pronounced  adornment.  As  she  looked  round,  Dm-be^^eld 
was  seen  mo\ing  along  the  road  in  a  chaise  belonging 
to  The  Pure  Drop,  diiven  by  a  frizzle-headed,  Ijrawny 
damsel,  with  her  gown,  sleeves  rolled  above  her  elbows. 
This  was  the  cheerful  servant  of  that  estabhshment,  who, 
in  her  part  of  factotum,  turned  groom  and  ostler  at  times. 
Durbeyfield,  leaning  back,  and  with  his  eyes  closed  lux- 
uriously, was  waving  his  hand  above  his  head,  and  sing- 
ing, in  a  slow  recitative : 

^'  Pve  got  a  great  family  vault  at  Kingsbere,  and  knighted 
forefathers  in  lead  coffins  there  !  " 

The  clubbists  tittered,  except  the  girl  called  Tess — in 
whom  a  slow  heat  seemed  to  rise  at  the  sense  that  her 
father  was  making  himself  foohsh  in  their  eyes. 

"  He's  tired,  that's  all,"  she  said,  hastily,  "  and  he  has  got 
a  lift  home,  because  our  own  horse  has  to  rest  to-dav." 

''Bless  thy  simplicity,  Tess,"  said  her  companions 
"  He's  got  his  market-nitch.     Haw-haw  !  " 

''  Look  here  j  I  won't  walk  another  inch  ^s^dth  ye  if  you 


THE   iVIAIDEN.  11 

say  any  jokes  about  him !  "  Tess  cried^  and  tlie  color  upon 
lier  cheeks  spread  over  her  face  and  neck.  In  a  moment 
her  eyes  grew  moist,  and  her  glance  dropped  to  the 
ground.  Perceiving  that  they  had  really  pained  her,  they 
said  no  more,  and  order  again  prevailed.  Tess's  pride 
would  not  allow  her  to  turn  her  head  again,  to  learn  what 
her  father's  meaning  was,  if  he  had  any;  and  thus  she 
moved  on  mtli  the  whole  bodv  to  the  enclosure  where 
there  was  to  be  dancing  on  the  green.  By  the  time  the 
spot  was  reached  she  had  recovered  her  equanimity,  and 
tapped  her  neighbor  with  her  wand  and  talked  as  usual. 

Tess  Durbey field  at  this  time  of  her  life  was  a  mere 
vessel  of  emotion,  untinctured  by  experience.  The  dialect 
was  on  her  tongue  to  some  extent,  despite  the  \dllage 
school :  the  characteristic  intonation  of  that  dialect  for  this 
district  being  the  voicing  approximately  rendered  by  the 
syllable  ur — probably  as  rich  an  utterance  as  any  to  be 
found  in  human  speech.  The  pouted-up  deep  red  mouth 
to  which  this  syllable  was  native  had  hardly  as  yet  settled 
into  its  definite  shape,  and  her  lower  lip  had  a  way  of 
thrusting  the  middle  of  her  top  one  uj)ward,  when  they 
closed  together  after  a  word. 

Phases  of  her  childhood  lui^ked  in  her  aspect  still.  As 
she  walked  along  to-day,  for  all  her  bouncing  handsome 
womanliness,  you  could  sometimes  see  her  twelfth  year  in 
her  cheeks,  or  her  ninth  sparkling  from  her  eyes ;  and 
even  her  fifth  would  flit  over  the  curves  of  her  mouth  now 
and  then. 

Yet  few  knew,  and  still  fewer  considered,  this.  A  small 
minority,  mainly  strangers,  would  look  long  at  her  in  casually 
passing  by,  and  grow  momentarily  fascinated  by  her  fresh- 
ness, and  wonder  if  they  would  ever  see  her  again ;  but  to 
almost  everybody  she  was  a  fijie  and  picturesque  countiy 
gii'l,  and  no  more. 

Nothing  was  seen  or  heard  further  of  Durbeyfield  in  his 
triumphal  chariot  under  the  conduct  of  the  ostleress,  and 


12  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

the  clul)  lia\dng  entered  tlie  allotted  space,  dancing  began. 
As  there  were  no  men  in  the  company,  the  gh-ls  danced  at 
first  mth  each  other,  but  when  the  horn*  for  the  close  of 
labor  drew  on,  the  masculine  inha})itants  of  the  village,  to- 
gether with  other  idlers  and  pedestrians,  gathered  roimd 
the  spot,  and  appeared  inclined  to  negotiate  for  a  partner. 

Among  these  lookers-on  were  three  young  men  of  a 
superior  class,  carrying  small  knapsacks  strapped  to  their 
shoulders,  and  stout  sticks  in  theu'  hands.  Their  general 
likeness  to  each  other  and  their  consecutive  ages  would  al- 
most have  suggested  that  they  might  be,  what  in  fact  they 
were,  brothers.  The  eldest  wore  the  white  tie,  high  waist- 
coat, and  thin-brimmed  hat  of  the  regulation  curate ;  the 
second  was  the  normal  undergraduate ;  the  appearance  of 
the  third  and  youngest  would  hardly  have  been  sufficient 
to  characterize  him ;  there  w^as  an  uncribbed,  uncabined 
aspect  in  his  eyes  and  attire,  implying  that  he  had  hardly 
as  yet  found  the  entrance  to  his  professional  groove.  That 
he  was  a  desultory,  tentative  student  of  something  and 
everything  might  only  have  been  predicated  of  him. 

These  three  brethren  told  casual  acquaintance  that  they 
were  spending  theii'  Whitsun  hohdays  in  a  walking  tour 
through  the  Yale  of  Blackmoor,  their  course  being  south- 
westerly from  the  town  of  Shaston  on  the  northeast. 

They  leant  over  the  gate  by  the  highway,  and  inquired 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  dance  and  the  white-frocked 
maids.  The  two  elder  of  the  brothers  were  plainly  not  in- 
tending to  linger  more  than  a  moment,  but  the  spectacle 
of  a  bevy  of  girls  dancing  without  male  partners  seemed  to 
amuse  the  third,  and  make  him  in  no  hurry  to  move  on. 
He  unstrapped  his  knapsack,  put  it,  Avith  liis  stick,  on  the 
hedge-bank,  and  opened  the  gate. 

^^  What  are  you  going  to  do.  Angel?"  asked  the  eldest. 

"I  am  inclined  to  go  and  have  a  fling  with  them.  Why 
not  all  of  us — just  for  a  minute  or  two  ]  it  will  not  detain 
us  long  ? " 


THE   MAIDEN.  13 

"  No — no ;  nonsense  !  "  said  the  first.  "  Dancing  in 
public  with  a  troop  of  country  hoydens!  Suppose  we 
should  be  seen !  Come  along,  or  it  Tvill  be  dark  before 
we  get  to  Stourcastle,  and  there's  no  place  we  can  sleep  at 
nearer  than  that ;  besides,  we  must  get  through  another 
chapter  of  A  Counterhlast  to  Agnosticism  before  we  turn  in, 
now  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  bring  the  book." 

"All  right;  I'll  overtake  you  and  Cuthbert  in  five 
minutes ;  don't  stop ;  I  give  my  word  that  I  will,  Felix." 

The  two  elder  reluctantly  left  him  and  walked  on,  taking 
their  brother's  knapsack  to  relieve  him  in  following,  and 
the  3^oungest  entered  the  field. 

"  This  is  a  thousand  pities,"  he  said,  gallantly,  to  two  or 
three  of  the  girls  nearest  him,  as  soon  as  there  was  a  pause 
in  the  dance.     "  \^Tiere  are  your  partners,  my  dears  ? " 

ii  Thev've  not  left  off  work  vet,"  answered  one  of  the 
boldest.  "  They'll  be  here  by-and-by.  Till  then  ^dll  you 
be  one,  sirf" 

'^ Certainly.     But  what's  one  among  so  many?" 

"Better  than  none.  'Tis  melancholy  work  facing  and 
footing  it  to  one  of  your  own  sort,  and  no  clipsing  and 
colling  at  all.     Now,  pick  and  choose." 

"  S-sh  !     Don't  be  so  forward  !  "  said  a  shver  2:irl. 

The  young  man,  thus  invited,  glanced  them  over,  and 
attempted  some  discrimination ;  but  as  the  group  were  all 
so  new  to  him,  he  could  not  very  well  exercise  it.  He  took 
almost  the  first  that  came  to  hand,  which  was  not  the 
speaker,  as  she  had  expected ;  nor  did  it  happen  to  be  Tess 
Durbeyfield.  Pedigree,  ancestral  skeletons,  monumental 
record,  the  D'Urberville  lineaments,  did  not  help  Tess  in 
her  life's  battle  as  yet,  even  to  the  extent  of  attracting  to 
her  a  dancing  partner  over  the  heads  of  the  commonest 
peasantry.  So  much  for  Norman  blood  unaided  b}^  Vic- 
torian lucre. 

The  name  of  the  echpsing  girl,  whatever  it  was,  has  not 
been  handed  down  5  but  she  was  envied  by  all  as  the  fii-st 


14  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

who  enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  masculine  partner  that  even- 
ing. Yet  such  was  the  force  of  example  that  the  village 
young  men,  who  had  not  hastened  to  enter  the  gate  while 
no  intruder  was  in  the  way,  now  dropped  in  quickly,  and 
soon  the  couples  became  leavened  with  rustic  youths  to  a 
marked  extent,  till  at  length  the  j)lainest  woman  in  the  club 
was  no  longer  compelled  to  foot  it  on  the  masculine  side  of 
the  figure. 

The  church  clock  struck,  when  suddenlv  the  student  said 
that  he  must  leave — he  had  been  forgetting  himself — he 
had  to  join  his  companions.  As  he  fell  out  of  the  dance 
his  eyes  lighted  on  Tess  Durbeyfield,  whose  own  large  orbs 
wore,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  faintest  aspect  of  reproach  that 
he  had  not  chosen  her.  He,  too,  was  sorry  then  that,  omng 
to  her  backwardness,  he  had  not  observed  her ;  and,  with 
that  in  his  mind,  he  left  the  pastm*e. 

On  account  of  his  long  delay  he  started  in  a  flying  run 
down  the  lane  westward,  and  had  soon  passed  the  hollow 
and  mounted  the  next  rise.  He  had  not  yet  overtaken  his 
brothers,  l)ut  he  paused  to  take  breath,  and  looked  back. 
He  could  see  the  white  figures  of  the  girls  in  the  green  en- 
closure whirling  about  as  they  had  whirled  when  he  was 
among  them.  They  seemed  to  have  quite  forgotten  him 
alreadv. 

All  of  them,  except,  perhaps,  one.  This  white  figure  stood 
apart  by  the  hedge  alone.  From  her  position  he  knew  it 
to  be  the  pretty  maiden  mth  whom  he  had  not  danced. 
Trifling  as  the  matter  was,  he  yet  instinctively  felt  that 
she  was  hurt  by  his  oversight.  He  wished  that  he  had 
asked  her ;  he  wished  that  he  had  inquired  her  name.  She 
was  so  modest,  so  expressive,  she  had  looked  so  soft  in  her 
thin  white  gown  that  he  felt  he  had  acted  stupidly. 

However,  it  could  not  be  helped,  and  turning,  and  bend- 
ing himself  to  a  rapid  walk,  he  dismissed  the  subject  from 
his  mind. 


THE  MAIDEN.  15 


III. 

As  for  Tess  Durbeyfield,  she  did  not  so  easily  dislodge 
the  incident  from  her  consideration.  She  had  no  spmt  to 
dance  again  for  a  long  time,  thongh  she  might  have  had 
plenty  of  partners ;  but,  ah  !  they  did  not  speak  so  nicely  as 
the  strange  yonng  man  had  done.  It  was  not  till  the  rays 
of  the  sun  had  absorbed  the  young  strangei^'s  retreating 
figure  on  the  hill  that  she  shook  off  her  temporary  sadness, 
and  answered  her  would-be  partner  in  the  affii-mative. 

She  remained  with  her  comrades  till  dusk,  and  partici- 
pated with  a  certain  zest  in  the  dancing;  though,  being 
heart-whole  as  yet,  she  enjoyed  treading  a  measure  pm-ely 
for  its  own  sake ;  little  divining  when  she  saw  "  the  soft 
torments,  the  bitter  sweets,  the  pleasing  pains,  and  the 
agTceable  distresses"  of  those  girls  who  had  been  wooed 
and  won,  v\diat  she  herself  was  capable  of  experiencing  in 
that  kind.  The  struggles  and  ^Tangles  of  the  lads  for  her 
hand  in  a  jig  were  an  amusement  to  her,  no  more ;  and 
when  thev  became  fierce  she  rebuked  them. 

She  might  have  stayed  even  later,  but  the  incident  of  her 
father's  odd  appearance  and  manner  retui'ued  upon  the 
girl's  mind  to  make  her  anxious,  and  wondering  what  had 
become  of  him  she  dropped  away  from  the  dancers  and 
bent  her  steps  towards  the  end  of  the  village  at  which  the 
parental  cottage  lay.  While  yet  many  score  yards  off, 
other  rhythmic  sounds  than  those  she  had  quitted  became 
audible  to  her ;  sounds  that  she  knew  well — so  well.  They 
were  a  regular  series  of  thumpings  from  the  interior  of  the 
house,  occasioned  by  the  \iolent  rocking  of  a  cradle  upon 
a  stone  floor,  to  which  movement  a  feminine  voice  kept 
time  by  singing,  in  a  vigorous  gallopade,  the  favorite  ditty 
of  "  The  Spotted  Cow  " : 


16  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

I  saw  her  lie  do — own  in  yon — der  green  gro — ve ; 
Come,  love,  and  I'll  tell  you  where. 

The  cradle-rocking  and  the  song  would  cease  for  a  mo- 
ment simultaneously,  and  an  exclamation  at  highest  vocal 
pitch  would  take  the  place  of  the  melody. 

^'  God  bless  thy  diment  eyes  !  And  thy  waxen  cheeks  ! 
And  thy  cherry  mouth !  And  thy  Cubit's  lags !  And 
every  bit  o'  thy  blessed  body  !" 

After  this  invocation  the  rocking  and  the  singing  would 
recommence,  and  ''  The  Spotted  Cow "  proceed  as  before. 
So  matters  stood  when  Tess  opened  the  door  and  paused 
upon  the  mat  "within  it,  siu'veying  the  scene. 

The  interior,  in  spite  of  the  melody,  struck  upon  the 
girPs  senses  with  an  unspeakable  dreariness.  From  the 
holiday  gayeties  of  the  day — the  white  gowns,  the  nose- 
gays, the  willow  wands,  the  whirling  movements  on  the 
green,  the  flash  of  gentle  sentiment  towards  the  stranger — 
to  the  yellow  melancholy  of  this  one-candled  spectacle, 
what  a  step !  Besides  the  jar  of  contrast,  there  came  to 
her  a  chill  feeling  of  self-reproach  that  she  had  not  re- 
turned sooner,  before  the  dancing  began,  to  help  her 
mother  in  these  domesticities,  instead  of  indulging  herself 
out-of-doors. 

There  stood  her  mother  amid  the  group  of  childi'en,  as 
Tess  had  left  her,  hanging  over  the  Monday  washing-tub, 
which  had  now,  as  always,  lingered  on  to  the  end  of  the 
week.  Out  of  that  tub  had  come  the  day  before — Tess  felt 
it  with  a  dreadful  sting  of  remorse — the  very  white  frock 
upon  her  back,  which  she  had  so  carelessly  greened  about 
the  skirt  on  the  damping  grass ;  which  had  been  wrung  up 
and  ironed  by  her  mother's  own  hands. 

As  usual,  Mrs.  Durbevfield  was  l)alanced  on  one  foot 
l)eside  the  tub,  the  other  being  engaged  in  the  aforesaid 
business  of  rocking  her  youngest  child.  The  cradle  rockers 
liad  done  hard  duty  for  so  many  years,  under  the  weight 


o 

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CO 
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o 
o 
o 

s! 


H 
H 
M 

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2 


a 

O 

o 

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Si 

a 

":) 
t> 
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O 

a 

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z 


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--I 
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z 

IS 


THE   3IAIDEN.  17 

of  SO  many  cliildren,  on  that  flag-stone  floor,  that  they 
were  worn  nearly  flat;  in  consequence  of  which  a  huge 
jerk  accompanied  each  swing  of  the  cot,  flinging  the  baby 
from  side  to  side  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  as  Mrs.  Durbey- 
field,  excited  by  her  song,  trod  the  rocker  with  all  the 
spring  that  was  left  in  her  after  a  long  day's  seething  in 
the  suds. 

Nick-knock,  nick-knock  went  the  cradle;  the  candle- 
flame  stretched  itself  tall,  and  began  jigging  up  and 
do^Ti ;  the  water  dribbled  from  her  mother's  eb30ws,  and 
the  song  galloped  on  to  the  end  of  the  verse,  Mrs.  Dm-bey- 
field  regarding  her  daughter  the  while.  Even  now,  when 
biu'dened  with  a  young  family,  Joan  Durbe;yfield  was  a 
passionate  lover  of  tune.  No  ditty  floated  into  Black- 
moor  Vale  from  the  outer  world  but  Tess's  mother  caught 
up  its  notation  in  a  week. 

There  still  faintly  beamed  from  the  woman's  features 
something  of  the  freshness  and  even  the  prettiness  of  her 
youth,  rendering  it  evident  that  the  personal  charms  which 
Tess  could  boast  of  were  in  main  part  her  mother's  gift, 
and  therefore  unknightly,  unhistorical. 

"  I'll  rock  the  cradle  for  'ee,  mother,"  said  the  daughter, 
gently ;  "or  I'll  take  off  my  best  frock  and  help  you  ^vi'ing 
up  1     1  thought  you  had  finished  long  ago." 

Her  mother  bore  Tess  no  ill-will  for  leaving  the  house- 
work to  her  single-handed  efforts  for  so  long ;  and  indeed 
she  seldom  upbraided  her  thereon  at  any  time,  feeling  the 
lack  of  Tess's  assistance  but  slightly,  whilst  her  chief  plan 
for  relieving  herself  of  her  diurnal  labors  lay  in  postpon- 
ing them.  To-night,  however,  she  was  even  in  a  blither 
mood  than  usual.  There  was  a  dreaminess,  a  preposses- 
sion, an  exaltation,  in  the  maternal  look  which  the  gii'l 
could  not  understand. 

''  Well,  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  her  mother  said,  as  soon 
as  the  last  note  had  passed  out  of  her.  "  I  want  to  go  and 
fetch  youi*  father.     But  what's  mox'e'n  that,  I  want  to  tell 


18  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

'ee  what  have  happened.  You'll  be  fess  enough,  my  pop- 
pet, when  you  know  !  " 

(Mrs.  Dui'beylield  still  habitually  spoke  the  dialect ;  her 
daughter,  who  had  passed  the  Sixth  Standard  in  the  Na- 
tional School,  under  a  London-trained  mistress,  spoke  two 
languages;  the  dialect  at  home,  more  or  less;  ordinary 
English  abroad  and  to  persons  of  quality.) 

"  Since  I've  been  away  ? "  Tess  asked. 

"Ay!" 

"Had  it  anything  to  do  with  father's  making  such  a 
mommet  of  himself  in  the  carriage  this  afternoon  ?  Why 
did  he  ?     I  felt  inclined  to  sink  into  the  ground !  " 

"  That  was  all  a  part  of  the  larry.  We've  been  found  to  be 
the  gi'eatest  gentlefolk  in  the  w^hole  county,  reaching  all  back 
long  before  Oliver  Grumble's  time,  to  the  days  of  the  pagan 
Turks,  mth  monuments  and  vaults  and  crests  and  scutch- 
eons, and  the  Lord  knows  what  all !  In  Saint  Charles's 
days  we  was  made  Knights  of  the  Royal  Oak,  our  real 
name  being  D'Urber\dlle.  .  .  .  Don't  that  make  your  bosom 
swell  ?  'TAvas  on  tliis  account  that  voui'  father  rode  home 
in  the  carriage ;  not  because  he'd  been  drinking,  as  people 
supposed." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.     WiU  it  do  us  any  good,  mother!" 

"  Oh  yes.  'Tis  thoughted  that  great  things  may  come 
o't.  No  doubt  a  string  of  folk  of  our  own  rank  wiU  be 
down  here  in  their  carriages  as  soon  as  'tis  knoT\Ti.  Your 
father  learnt  it  on  his  way  home  from  Stourcastle,  and  has 
been  telling  me  the  whole  pedigree  of  the  matter." 

"  Where  is  father  now  .?  "  asked  Tess,  suddenly. 

Her  mother  gave  irrelevant  information  by  way  of  answer. 
"  He  called  to  see  the  doctor  to-day  in  Stourcastle.  It  is 
not  consumption  at  all,  it  seems.  It  is  fat  around  his 
heart,  he  says.  There,  it  is  like  this."  Joan  Durbeyfield, 
as  she  spoke,  curved  a  sodden  thumb  and  forefinger  to  the 
shape  of  the  letter  C,  and  used  the  other  forefinger  as  a 
pointer.     " '  At    the    present    moment,'  he   says  to  youi' 


THE   3IAIDEN,  19 

father,  'your  heart  is  enclosed  all  round  there,  and  all 
round  there ;  this  space  is  still  open/  he  says.  ^  As  soon 
as  it  meets,  so ' — Mrs.  Durbeyfield  closed  her  fingers  into  a 
circle  complete — '  off  3'on  ^nW  go  like  a  shadder,  Mr.  Durbey- 
field,' he  says.  ^  You  mid  last  ten  years  5  you  mid  go  off 
in  ten  months,  or  ten  days.' " 

Tess  looked  alarmed.  Her  father  possibly  to  go  behind 
the  eternal  cloud  so  soon,  notwithstanding  this  sudden 
greatness  !     "  But  where  is  father  ? "  she  asked  again. 

Her  mother  put  on  a  deprecating  look.  "Now  don't 
you  be  bursting  out  angry.  The  poor  man — he  felt  so  weak 
after  his  excitement  at  the  news — that  he  went  up  to  Rolli- 
ver's  half  an  hour  ago.  He  do  want  to  get  up  his  strength 
for  his  journey  to-morrow  wdth  that  load  of  beehives, 
which  must  be  delivered,  family  or  no.  He'll  have  to  start 
shortly  after  twelve  to-night,  as  the  distance  is  so  long." 

"  G-et  up  his  strength  !  "  said  Tess,  impetuously,  the  tears 
welling  to  her  eyes.  "  O,  my  heavens !  go  to  a  pubhc 
house  to  get  up  his  strength  !  And  you  as  well  agreed  as 
he,  mother !  " 

Her  rebuke  and  her  mood  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  room, 
and  to  impart  a  cowled  look  to  the  furniture  and  candle, 
and  children  plajdng  about,  and  to  her  mothei^'s  face. 

"No,"  said  the  latter,  touchily,  "I  am  not  agreed.  I 
have  been  waiting  for  'ee  to  bide  and  keep  house  while  I 
go  to  fetch  him." 

"  I'll  go." 

"  Oh  no,  Tess.     You  see,  it  would  be  no  use." 

Tess  did  not  expostulate.  She  knew  what  her  mother's 
objection  meant.  Moreover,  Mrs.  Durbeyfield's  jacket  and 
bonnet  were  already  hanging  slyly  upon  a  chair  by  her 
side,  in  readiness  for  this  contemplated  jaunt,  the  reason 
for  which  the  matron  deplored  more  than  its  necessity. 

"x\nd  take  the  CompJeat  Fortune-teller  to  the  out-house," 
she  continued,  rapidly  wiping  her  hands  and  donning  the 
garments. 


20  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

The  Compleat  Fortune-teller  was  an  old  thick  volume, 
which  lay  on  a  table  at  her  elbow,  so  worn  by  pocketing 
that  the  margins  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  type.  Tess 
took  it  np,  and  her  mother  started. 

This  going  to  hunt  up  her  shiftless  husband  at  the  inn 
was  one  of  Mrs.  Durbeyfield's  still  extant  enjojTuents  in 
the  muck  and  muddle  of  rearing  children.  To  discover 
him  at  Rolliver's,  to  sit  there  for  an  hour  or  two  by  his 
side,  and  dismiss  all  thought  and  care  of  the  children  dur- 
ing the  interval,  made  her  happy.  A  sort  of  halo,  an  Oc- 
cidental glow,  came  over  life  then.  Troubles  and  other 
realities  took  on  themselves  a  metaphysical  impalpability, 
sinking  to  mere  cerebral  phenomena  for  quiet  contempla- 
tion, and  no  longer  stood  as  pressing  concretions  which 
chafe  body  and  soul.  The  youngsters,  not  immediately 
within  sight,  seemed  rather  bright  and  desirable  appur- 
tenances than  otherwise ;  the  incidents  of  daily  life  were 
not  without  humorousness  and  jollity  in  their  aspect  there. 
She  felt  a  little  as  she  had  used  to  feel  when  she  sat  by  her 
now  husband  in  the  same  spot  during  his  wooing,  shutting 
her  eyes  to  his  defects  of  character,  and  regarding  him 
only  in  his  ideal  presentation  as  a  lover. 

Tess,  being  left  alone  with  the  younger  children,  went 
first  to  the  out-house  with  the  fortune-telling  book,  and 
stuffed  it  into  the  thatch.  A  curious  fetishistic  fear  of  this 
grimy  volume  on  the  part  of  her  mother  prevented  her 
ever  allowing  it  to  stay  in  the  house  all  night,  and  hither 
it  was  brought  back  whenever  it  had  been  consulted.  Be- 
tween the  mother,  with  her  fast-perishing  lumber  of  super- 
stitions, folk-lore,  dialect,  aud  orally  transmitted  ballads, 
and  the  daughter,  with  her  trained  National  teachings  and 
Sixth  Standard  knowledge  under  an  infinitely  Revised 
Code,  there  was  a  gap  of  two  hundred  years  as  ordinarily 
understood.  When  they  were  together  the  Ehzabethan 
and  the  Victorian  ages  stood  juxtaposed. 

Returning  along  the  garden  path,  Tess  mused  on  what 


THE  MAIDEN.  21 

the  mother  could  have  wished  to  ascertain  from  the  book 
on  this  particular  day,  and  readily  guessed  it  to  bear  upon 
the  recent  discovery.  Dismissing  this,  however,  she  busied 
herself  with  sprinkling  the  linen  di'ied  during  the  da}i:ime, 
in  company  wdth  her  nine-year-old  brother  Abraham  and 
her  sister  Eliza  Louisa  of  twelve,  called  "■  'Liza  Lu,-'  the 
youngest  ones  being  put  to  bed.  There  was  an  interval  of 
four  vears  between  Tess  and  the  next  of  the  familv,  the 
two  who  had  filled  the  gap  having  died  in  their  infancy, 
and  this  lent  her  a  deputy-maternal  attitude  when  she  was 
alone  with  her  juniors.  Next  in  juvenility  to  Abraham  came 
two  more  girls,  Hope  and  Modesty ;  then  a  boy  of  three ; 
and  then  the  baby,  who  had  just  completed  his  first  year. 

All  these  young  souls  wei'^  passengers  in  the  Durbey- 
field  ship — entirely  dependent  on  the  judgment  of  the  two 
Durbe}^eld  adults  for  their  pleasures,  their  necessities, 
their  health,  even  their  existence.  If  the  heads  of  the 
Durbevfield  household  chose  to  sail  into  difflcultv,  disaster, 
starvation,  disease,  degradation,  death,  thither  w^re  these 
half-dozen  little  captives  under  hatches  compelled  to  sail 
with  them — six  helpless  creatures,  who  had  never  been 
asked  if  thev  wished  for  hfe  on  anv  terms,  much  less  if 
thev  wished  for  it  on  such  hard  conditions  as  were  involved 
in  being  of  the  shiftless  house  of  Dm-beyfield.  Some  peo- 
ple would  like  to  know  whence  the  poet  whose  philosophy  is 
in  these  days  deemed  as  profound  and  trustworthy  as  his 
song  is  sweet  and  pure,  gets  his  authority  for  speaking  of 
''  Nature's  holy  plan." 

It  grew  later,  and  neither  father  nor  mother  appeared. 
Tess  looked  out  of  the  door  occasionallv,  and  took  a  men- 
tal  journey  through  Marlott.  The  village  was  shutting  its 
eyes.  Candles  and  lamps  were  being  put  out  everywhere ; 
she  could  mentally  behold  the  extinguisher  and  the  ex- 
tended hand. 

Her  mother's  fetching  simply  meant  one  more  to  fetch. 
Tess  began  to  perceive  that  a  man  in  indifferent  healthy 


22  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

who  proposed  to  start  on  a  journey  before  one  in  the  morn- 
ing, ought  not  to  be  at  an  inn  at  this  late  hour  celebrating 
his  ancient  blood. 

"Abraham/'  she  said,  presently,  to  her  little  brother, 
"  do  you  put  on  youi*  hat — you  bain't  afraid  ? — and  go  up 
to  Rolliver's,  and  see  what  has  become  of  father  and 
mother." 

The  boy  jumped  promptly  from  his  seat  and  opened  the 
door,  and  the  night  swallowed  him  up.  Half  an  hour 
passed  yet  again ;  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child  returned. 
Abraham,  like  liis  parents,  seemed  to  have  been  limed  and 
caught  by  the  ensnaring  inn. 

"  I  must  go  mj^self,"  she  said. 

'Liza  Lu  then  went  to  bed,  and  Tess,  locking  them  all  in, 
started  on  her  way  up  the  dark  and  crooked  lane  or  street, 
not  made  for  hasty  progress ;  a  street  laid  out  before 
inches  of  land  had  value,  and  when  one-handed  clocks  suf- 
ficiently subdivided  the  day. 


IV. 

Rolliver's  inn,  the  single  ale-house  at  tliis  end  of  the 
long  and  broken  village,  could  boast  of  only  an  off -license ; 
hence,  as  nobody  could  legalh^  drink  on  the  premises,  the 
amount  of  overt  accommodation  for  consumers  was  strictly 
limited  to  a  little  board  about  six  inches  wide  and  two  vards 
long,  fixed  to  the  garden  palings  by  j^ieces  of  ^m^e,  so  as  to 
form  a  ledge.  On  this  board  thirsty  strangers  deposited 
their  cujds  as  they  stood  in  the  road  and  drank,  and  threw 
the  dregs  on  the  dusty  ground  to  the  pattern  of  Polynesia, 
and  wished  they  could  have  a  restful  seat  inside. 

Thus  the  strangers.  But  there  were  also  local  customers 
who  felt  the  same  wish  j  and  where  there's  a  will  there's  a 
way. 


THE   INIAIDEN.  23 

In  a  large  bedroom  upstairs,  the  window  of  which  was 
thickly  curtained  \Wth  a  great  woollen  shawl,  lately  dis- 
carded by  the  landlady,  Mrs.  Rolliver,  were  gathered  on 
this  evening  nearly  a  dozen  persons,  all  seeking  beatitude ; 
all  old  inhabitants  of  the  nearer  end  of  Marlott,  and  fre- 
quenters of  this  retreat.  Not  only  did  the  distance  to  The 
Pure  Drop,  the  fully  licensed  tavern  at  the  further -part  of 
the  dispersed  village,  render  its  accommodation  practically 
unavailable  for  dwellers  at  this  end,  but  the  far  more 
serious  question,  the  quality  of  the  liquor,  confirmed  the 
opinion  prevalent  that  it  was  better  to  drink  with  Rolliver 
in  a  corner  of  the  house-top  than  with  the  other  landlord 
in  a  wide  house. 

A  gaunt  four-post  bedstead  which  stood  in  the  room  af- 
forded sitting  space  for  several  persons  gathered  round  three 
of  its  sides;  a  couple  more  men  had  elevated  themselves 
on  a  chest  of  drawers;  another  rested  on  the  carved-oak 
"  cwoffer  " ;  another  on  the  stool ;  and  thus  all  were,  some- 
how, seated  at  their  ease.  The  stage  of  mental  comfort  to 
which  thev  had  arrived  at  this  hour  was  one  wherein  their 
souls  seemed  to  expand  beyond  their  skins,  spreading  their 
personalities  warmly  through  the  room.  In  this  process 
the  chamber  and  its  fm^niture  grew  more  and  more  digni- 
fied and  luxurious ;  the  shawl  hanging  at  the  window  took 
upon  itself  the  richness  of  tapestry;  the  brass  handles  of 
the  chest  of  drawers  were  as  golden  knockers;  and  the 
carved  bedposts  seemed  to  have  some  kinship  mth  the 
magnificent  pillars  of  Solomon's  temple. 

Mrs.  Durbeyfield,  having  quickly  walked  hitherward 
after  parting  from  Tess,  opened  the  front  door,  crossed  the 
downstaii's  room,  which  was  in  deep  gloom,  and  then  un- 
fastened the  stair  door  like  one  whose  fingers  knew  the 
tricks  of  the  latches  well.  Her  ascent  of  the  crooked  stair- 
case was  a  slower  process,  and  her  face,  as  it  rose  into  the 
light  above  the  last  stair,  encountered  the  gaze  of  all  the 
party  assembled  in  the  bedroom. 


24  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBER^^LLES. 

"  — Being  a  few  private  friends  IVe  asked  in  to  keep  up 
elnb-walking  at  my  own  expense,"  tlie  landlady  exclaimed, 
at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  as  glibly  as  a  cliild  repeating  the 
Catechism,  while  she  peered  over  the  staii'S.  "  O,  'tis  you, 
Mrs.  Durbey field !  Lard,  how  you  frightened  me  !  I  thought 
it  mid  be  some  gaffer  sent  by  Gover'ment." 

Mrs.  Durbeyfleld  was  welcomed  with  glances  and  nods 
by  the  remainder  of  the  conclave,  and  turned  to  where  her 
husband  sat.  He  was  humming  absently  to  himself,  in  a 
low  tone :  "  I  be  as  good  as  some  folks  here  and  there ! 
I've  got  a  great  family  vault  at  Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill, 
and  finer  skellingtons  than  any  man  in  the  county  o' 
Wessex ! " 

"I've  somethino^  to  tell  'ee  that's  come  into  mv  head 
about  that — a  grand  project ! "  whispered  his  cheerful  wife. 
"Here,  John,  don't  'ee  see  me?"  She  nudged  him,  while 
he,  looking  through  her  as  through  a  mndow-pane,  went 
on  Tvdth  his  recitative. 

"  Hush  !  Don't  'ee  sing  so  loud,  my  good  man,"  said  the 
landlady ;  "  in  case  any  member  of  the  Gover'ment  should 
be  passing,  and  take  away  my  licends." 

"  He's  told  'ee  what's  happened  to  us,  I  suppose  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Durbeyfield. 

"Yes — in  a  way.  D'ye  think  there's  any  money  hanging 
by  it  ? " 

"Ah,  that's  the  secret,"  said  Joan  Durbeyfield,  sagely. 
"  But  'tis  weU  to  be  kin  to  a  coach,  even  if  you  don't  ride 
in  en."  She  dropped  her  public  voice,  and  continued  in  a 
low  tone  to  her  husband :  "  I've  been  thinking  since  you 
brought  the  news  that  there's  a  great  rich  lady  out  by 
Trantridge,  on  the  edge  o'  The  Chase,  of  the  name  of 
D'UrberviUe." 

"Hey — what's  that?"  said  Sir  John. 

She  repeated  the  information.  "  Tliat  lady  must  be  our 
relation,"  she  said.  "And  my  project  is  to  send  Tess  to 
claim  kin." 


THE  IMAIDEN.  25 

a  There  is  a  lady  of  the  name,  now  you  mention  it,"  said 
Durbeyfield.  "  Pa'son  Tringham  didn't  think  of  that. 
But  she's  nothing  beside  we — a  jurnior  branch  of  us,  no 
doubt,  long  since  King  Norman's  day." 

While  this  question  was  being  discussed,  neither  of  the 
pair  noticed,  in  theii'  preoccupation,  that  little  Abraham 
had  crept  into  the  room,  and  was  awaiting  an  opportunity 
of  asking  them  to  return. 

''  She  is  rich,  and  she'd  be  sure  to  take  notice  o'  the 
maid,"  continued  Mrs.  Durbeyfield;  "and  'twill  be  a  very 
good  thing.  I  don't  see  why  two  branches  of  one  family 
should  not  be  on  visiting  terms." 

"  Yes ;  and  we'll  all  claim  kin  !  "  said  Abraham,  brightly, 
from  under  the  bedstead.  "And  v\^e'll  all  go  and  see  her 
when  Tess  has  gone  to  live  with  her ;  and  we'll  ride  in  her 
coach,  and  v/ear  black  clothes  !  " 

"How  do  you  come  here,  child?  What  nonsense  be  ye 
talking !  Go  away,  and  play  on  the  staii-s  till  father  and 
mother  be  ready.  .  .  .  Well,  Tess  ought  to  go  to  this  other 
member  of  our  family.  She'd  be  sure  to  win  the  lady, 
Tess  would ;  and  likely  enough  'twould  lead  to  some  noble 
gentleman  marrying  her.     In  short,  I  know  it." 

"How?" 

"  I  tried  her  fate  in  the  FortKne-felJer,  and  it  brought  out 
that  very  thing.  .  .  .  You  should  ha'  seen  how  pretty  she 
looked  to-day ;  her  skin  is  as  sumple  as  a  duchess's." 

"What  says  the  maid  herself  to  it?" 

"  I've  not  asked  her.  She  don't  know  there  is  any  such 
lady  relation  yet.  But  it  would  certainly  put  her  in  the  way 
of  a  grand  marriage,  and  she  won't  say  nay  to  going." 

"  Tess  is  queer." 

"  But  she  is  tractable  at  bottom.     Leave  her  to  me." 

Though  this  conversation  had  been  private,  sufficient  of 
its  import  reached  the  understandings  of  those  around  to 
suggest  to  them  that  the  Durbeyfields  had  weightier  con- 
cerns to  talk  of  now  than  common  folks  had,  and  that 


26  TESS  OF  THE  Da^RBERVILLES. 

Tess,  their  pretty  eldest  daughter,  had  fine  prospects  in 
store. 

'^  Tess  is  a  fine  figure  o'  fun,  as  I  said  to  mj^self  to-day 
when  I  zeed  her  vamping  round  parish  with  the  rest,"  ob- 
served one  of  the  elderly  boozers  in  an  undertone.  "  But 
Joan  Diu'beyfield  must  mind  that  she  don't  get  green  malt 
in  floor.''  It  was  a  local  phrase  which  had  a  peculiar 
meaning,  and  there  was  no  reply. 

The  conversation  became  inclusive,  and  presently  other 
footsteps  were  heard  crossing  the  room  below. 

'' — Being  a  few  private  friends  asked  in  to-night  to  keej) 
up  club- walking  at  my  own  expense."  The  landlady  had 
rapidly  reused  the  formula  she  kept  on  hand  for  intruders 
l^efore  she  recognized  that  the  new-comer  was  Tess. 

Even  to  her  m.other's  gaze  the  girl's  young  features 
looked  sadly  out  of  place  amid  the  alcoholic  vapors  which 
floated  here  as  no  unsuitable  medium  for  wrinkled  middle 
age ;  and  hardly  was  a  reproachful  flash  from  Tess's  dark 
eves  needed  to  make  her  father  and  mother  rise  from  their 
seats,  hastily  finish  their  ale,  and  descend  the  stairs  behind 
her,  Mrs.  Rolliver's  caution  following  their  footsteps : 

''No  noise,  please,  if  ye'll  be  so  good,  my  dears-  or  I 
mid  lose  my  licends,  and  be  summonsed,  and  I  don't  know 
what  all !    'Night  t'ye  !  " 

They  went  home  together,  Tess  holding  one  arm  of  her 
father,  and  Mrs.  Durbeyfield  the  other.  He  had,  in  truth, 
drunk  very  little — not  a  fourth  of  the  quantity  which  a 
systematic  tipj)ler  could  carry  to  church  on  a  Sunday 
morning  Avithout  a  hitch  in  his  eastings  or  his  genuflec- 
tions; but  the  weakness  of  Sir  John's  constitution  made 
mountains  of  his  petty  sins  in  this  kind.  On  reaching  the 
fresh  air  he  was  sufficiently  unsteady  to  incline  the  row  of 
three  at  one  moment  as  if  they  were  marching  to  London, 
and  at  another  as  if  they  were  marching  to  Bath,  which 
produced  a  comical  efi'ect,  frequent  enough  in  families  on 
nocturnal  home-goings ;  and,  like  most  comical  effects,  not 


THE   1\IAIDEN.  27 

quite  so  comic,  after  all.  The  two  women  valiantly  dis- 
guised these  forced  excursions  and  countermarches  as  weU 
as  they  could  from  Durbeyfleld,  their  cause,  and  from  Abra- 
ham, and  from  themselves ;  and  so  they  approached  by 
degrees  their  otvti  door,  the  head  of  the  family  bursting 
suddenly  into  his  former  refrain  as  he  drew  near,  as  if  to 
fortify  his  soul  at  sight  of  the  smallness  of  his  present 
residence : 

'^  I've  got  a  fam — ily  vault  at  Kingsbere  !  " 

Tess  tm*ned  the  subject  by  saying  what  was  far  more 
prominent  in  her  own  mind  at  the  moment  than  thoughts 
of  her  ancestry : 

"I  am  afraid  father  won't  be  able  to  take  the  journey 
with  the  beehives  to-morrow  so  earlv." 

"  I  ?  I  shall  be  all  right  in  an  hour  or  two,"  said  Dm^- 
beyfleld. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  the  Durbeyfields  were  all  in 
bed,  and  two  o'clock  next  morning  was  the  latest  hour  for 
starting  Vvdth  the  beehives,  if  they  were  to  be  dehvered  to 
the  retailers  in  Casterbrido^e  before  the  Saturday  market 
began,  the  way  thither  lying  by  bad  roads  over  a  distance 
of  between  twenty  and  thirty  miles,  and  the  horse  and 
wagon  being  of  the  slowest.  At  half -past  one  Mrs.  Dur- 
beyfield  came  into  the  large  bedroom  where  Tess  and  all 
her  little  sisters  slept. 

"  The  poor  man  can't  go,"  she  said  to  her  eldest  daugh- 
ter, whose  great  eyes  had  opened  the  moment  her  mother's 
hand  touched  the  door. 

Tess  sat  up  in  bed,  lost  in  a  vague  world  between  a 
dream  she  had  just  been  having  and  this  information. 

"But  somebody  must  go,"  she  replied  to  her  mother. 
"It  is  late  for  the  hives  already.  Swarming  will  soon  be 
over  for  the  year ;  and  if  we  put  off  taking  'em  till  next 
week's  market,  the  call  for  'em  tvoLL  be  past,  and  they'U  be 
tlu'own  on  our  hands." 


28  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Mrs.  Durbe3^field  looked  unequal  to  the  emergency. 
'■  Some  young  feller,  perhaps,  would  go  ?  One  of  them 
who  were  so  much  after  dancing  with  'ee  yesterday,"  she 
presently  suggested. 

''  Oh  no ;  I  wouldn't  have  it  for  the  world !  "  declared 
Tess,  proudly.  "  And  letting  everybody  know  the  reason 
— -such  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of !  I  think  I  could  go  if 
Abraham  could  go  with  me  to  keep  me  company." 

Her  mother  at  length  agreed  to  this  arrangement.  Little 
Abraham  was  aroused  from  his  deep  sleep  in  a  corner  of 
the  same  apartment,  and  made  to  put  on  his  clothes  while 
still  mentally  in  the  other  world.  Meanwhile  Tess  had 
hastily  dressed  herself;  and  the  twain,  lighting  a  lantern, 
went  out  to  the  stable.  The  rickety  Httle  wagon  was  al- 
ready laden,  and  the  girl  led  out  the  horse  Prince,  only  a 
degree  less  rickety  than  the  vehicle. 

The  poor  creature  looked  wonderingly  round  at  the  night, 
at  the  lantern,  at  their  two  figures,  as  if  he  could  not 
l)elieve  that  at  that  hour,  when  every  li^dng  thing  was  in- 
tended to  be  at  shelter  and  at  rest,  he  was  called  upon  to 
go  out  and  labor.  They  put  a  stock  of  candle-ends  into 
the  lantern,  hung  the  latter  to  the  off  side  of  the  road,  and 
directed  the  horse  onward,  walking  at  his  shoulder  at  fii'st 
dui'ing  the  up-hill  portion  of  the  way,  in  order  not  to  over- 
load an  animal  by  no  means  vigorous.  To  cheer  them- 
selves as  well  as  they  could,  they  made  an  artificial  morn- 
ing with  the  lantern,  some  bread  and  butter,  and  their 
own  conversation,  the  real  morning  being  far  from  come. 
Abraham,  as  he  more  fully  awoke  (for  he  had  moved  in  a 
sort  of  trance  so  far),  began  to  talk  of  the  strange  shapes 
assumed  by  the  various  dark  objects  against  the  sky ;  of 
this  tree  that  looked  like  a  raging  tiger  springing  from  a 
lair;  of  that  which  resembled  a  giant's  head. 

When  they  had  passed  the  little  town  of  Stourcastle, 
dumbly  somnolent  under  its  thick  brown  thatch,  they 
reached  higher  gi-ound.     Still  higher,  on  their  left,  the  ele- 


THE   MAIDEN.  29 

vatiou  called  Bnlbarrow,  or  Bealbarrow,  swelled  into  the 
sky,  engii'dled  by  its  eartlieii  trendies.  From  liereal)out 
the  long  road  declined  gently  for  a  great  distance  onward. 
They  monnted  in  front  of  the  wagon,  and  Abraham  grew 
reflective. 

"  Tess  !  "  he  said,  in  a  preparatory  tone,  after  a  silence. 

"  Yes,  Abraham,"  said  she. 

^'  Bain't  yon  glad  that  we've  become  gentlefolk  ?  " 

"  Not  particnlar  glad." 

"  Bnt  yon  be  glad  that  yon  are  going  to  marry  a  gentle- 
man f " 

"What?"  said  Tess. 

"  That  our  great  relation  will  help  'ee  to  marry  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  I  ?  Our  great  relation  ?  We  have  no  snch  relation. 
What  has  put  that  into  your  head  ? " 

"I  heard  'em  talking  abont  it  np  at  RoUivei^'s  when  I 
w^ent  to  find  father.  There's  a  rich  lady  of  om*  family  out 
at  Trantrids^e,  and  mother  said  that  if  von  claimed  kin  with 
the  lady,  she'd  put  'ee  in  the  way  of  marrying  a  gentle- 
man." 

His  sister  became  abruptly  still,  and  lapsed  into  a  pon- 
dering silence.  Abraham  talked  on,  rather  for  the  pleasure 
of  expression  than  for  audience,  so  that  his  sister's  ab- 
straction was  of  no  account.  He  leant  back  against  the 
hives,  and  with  upturned  face  made  observations  on  the 
stars,  w^hose  cold  pulses  were  beating  amid  the  black  hol- 
lows above,  in  serene  dissociation  from  these  two  wisps  of 
human  life.  He  asked  how  far  awav  those  twinklers  were, 
and  wdiether  God  was  on  the  other  side  of  them.  But 
ever  and  anon  his  childish  prattle  recurred  to  what  im- 
pressed his  imagination  even  more  deeply  than  the  won- 
ders of  creation.  If  Tess  were  made  rich  bv  marr\dng  a 
gentleman,  would  she  have  money  enough  to  buy  a  s^Dy- 
glass,  so  large  that  it  woidd  draw  stars  as  near  to  her  as 
Nettlecombe-Tout  f 


30  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER\aLLES. 

The  renewed  subject,  wliich  seemed  to  have  impregnated 
the  whole  family,  filled  Tess  with  impatience. 

"  Never  mind  that  now !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Did  you  say  the  stars  were  worlds,  Tess  ? " 

'^  Yes." 

"  All  like  ours  f " 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  I  think  so.  They  sometimes  seem 
to  be  like  the  apples  on  our  stubbard  tree.  Most  of  them 
splendid  and  sound — a  few  blighted." 

^' Which  do  we  live  on — a  splendid  one  or  a  blighted 
one?" 

''  A  blighted  one." 

'^  'Tis  very  unlucky  that  we  didn't  pitch  on  a  sound  one, 
when  there  were  so  many  more  of  'em !  " 

''  Yes." 

^^  Is  it  like  that  really,  Tess  ? "  said  Abraham,  turning  to 
her,  much  impressed,  on  reconsideration  of  this  rare  infor- 
mation. "  How  would  it  have  been  if  we  had  pitched  on  a 
sound  one  ? " 

"  Well,  father  wouldn't  have  coughed  and  creeped  about 
as  he  does,  and  wouldn't  have  got  too  tipsy  to  go  this 
journey ;  and  mother  wouldn't  have  been  always  washing, 
and  never  getting  finished." 

"  And  you  would  have  been  a  rich  lady  ready-made,  and 
not  have  to  be  made  rich  by  marrying  a  gentleman  ? " 

^^  Oh,  Aby,  don't — don't  talk  of  that  any  more !  " 

Left  to  his  reflections,  Abraham  soon  grew  drowsy. 
Tess  was  not  skilful  in  the  management  of  a  horse,  but  she 
thought  that  she  could  take  upon  herself  the  entire  conduct 
of  the  load  for  the  present,  and  allow  Abraham  to  go  to 
sleep,  if  he  A\dshed  to  do  so.  She  made  him  a  sort  of  nest 
in  front  of  the  hives,  in  such  a  manner  that  he  could  not 
fall,  and,  taking  the  rope  reins  into  her  own  hands,  jogged 
on  as  before. 

Prince  requii'ed  but  slight  attention,  lacking  energy  for 
superfluous  movements  of  any  sort.     Having  no  longer  a 


i 

I 


THE   MAIDEN.  31 

companion  to  distract  her,  Tess  fell  more  deeply  into  reverie 
than  ever,  her  back  leaning  against  the  hives.  The  mute 
procession  of  trees  and  hedges  became  attached  to  fantastic 
scenes,  ontside  reality,  and  the  occasional  heave  of  the  wind 
became  the  sigh  of  some  immense  sad  sonl,  conterminons 
with  the  universe  in  space,  and  vdth.  liistory  in  time. 

Then  examining  the  mesh  of  events  in  her  own  life,  she 
seemed  to  see  the  vanity  of  her  father's  views ;  the  gentle- 
manly match  of  her  mothei^s  fancy ;  to  see  him  as  a  grimac- 
ing personage,  laughing  at  her  poverty  and  her  shrouded 
knightly  ancestry.  Everything  grew  more  and  more  ex- 
travagant, and  she  no  longer  knew  how  time  passed.  A 
sudden  jerk  shook  her  in  her  seat,  and  Tess  awoke  from 
the  sleep  into  which  she,  too,  had  fallen. 

They  were  a  long  way  further  on  than  when  she  had 
lost  consciousness,  and  the  wagon  had  stopped.  A  hollow 
groan,  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  heard  in  her  life,  came 
from  the  front,  followed  by  a  shout  of  "  Hoi,  there  !  " 

The  lantern  hanging  at  her  wagon  had  gone  out,  but 
another  was  shining  in  her  face — much  brighter  than  her 
own  had  been.  Something  terrible  had  happened.  The 
harness  was  entangled  with  an  object  which  blocked  the 
way. 

In  consternation  Tess  jimiped  down,  and  discovered  the 
di'eadful  truth.  The  groan  had  proceeded  from  her  father's 
poor  horse  Prince.  The  morning  mail-cart,  with  its  two 
noiseless  wheels,  sjDceding  along  these  lanes  like  an  arrow, 
as  it  always  did,  had  driven  into  her  slow  and  unhghted 
equipage.  The  pointed  shaft  of  the  cart  had  entered  the 
breast  of  the  unhappy  Prince  like  a  SAVord,  and  from  the 
wound  his  life's  blood  was  spouting  in  a  stream,  and  fall- 
ing with  a  hiss  into  the  road. 

In  her  despau'  Tess  sprang  forward  and  put  her  hand 
upon  the  hole,  with  the  only  result  that  she  became  splashed 
from  face  to  skirt  with  the  crimson  drops.  Then  she  stood 
helplessly  looking  on.     Prince  also  stood  firm  and  motion- 


32  TESS   OIT   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

less  as  long  as  he  coiild,  till  lie  suddenly  sank  down  in  a 
heap. 

By  this  time  the  mail-cart  man  had  joined  her,  and  be- 
gan di'agging  and  unharnessing  the  hot  form  of  Prince. 
But  he  was  already  dead,  and  seeing  that  nothing  more 
could  be  done  immediately,  the  mail-cart  man  returned  to 
his  own  animal,  which  was  uninjured. 

^^  I  am  bound  to  go  on  with  the  mail-bags,"  he  said,  '^  so 
that  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  bide  here  with  your 
load.  I'll  send  somebody  to  help  you  as  soon  as  I  can.  It 
mil  soon  be  dayhght,  and  you  have  nothing  to  fear." 

He  mounted,  and  sped  on  his  way,  while  Tess  stood  and 
waited.  The  atmosphere  turned  pale ;  the  birds  shook 
themselves  in  the  hedges,  arose,  and  t^dtteredj  the  lane 
showed  all  its  white  features,  and  Tess  showed  hers,  still 
whiter.  The  huge  pool  of  blood  in  front  of  her  was  akeady 
assuming  the  iridescence  of  coagulation ;  and  when  the 
sun  rose,  a  million  prismatic  hues  were  reflected  from  it. 
Prince  lay  alongside  still  and  stark,  his  eyes  half  open,  the 
hole  in  his  chest  looking  scarcely  large  enough  to  have  let 
out  all  that  had  animated  him. 

^'  'Tis  all  my  doing — all  mine  !  "  the  distressed  girl  mur- 
mured, gazing  intently  at  the  spectacle.  "No  excuse  for 
me — none.  Wliat  will  father  and  mother  live  on  now? 
Aby,  Aby !  "  She  shook  the  child,  who  had  slept  soundly 
through  the  whole  disaster.  "We  can't  go  on  vdtli  our 
load — Prince  is  killed !  " 

When  Abraham  realized  all,  the  furrows  of  fifty  years 
w^re  extemporized  on  his  young  face. 

"  Why,  I  danced  and  laughed  only  yesterday !  "  she  went 
on  to  herself.     "  To  think  that  I  was  such  a  fool !  " 

"  'Tis  because  we  be  on  a  T)lighted  star,  and  not  a  sound 
one,  isn't  it,  Tess  ? "  murmured  Abraham,  through  his  tears. 

In  stagnant  blankness  they  waited  thi'ough  an  interval 
which  seemed  endless.  At  length  a  sound  and  an  ap- 
proaching object  proved  to  them  that  the  di'iver  of  the  mail- 


THE  IMAIDEN.  33 

cart  had  "been  as  good  as  his  word.  A  farmer's  man  from 
near  Stourcastle  came  up,  leading  a  strong  cob.  He  was 
harnessed  to  the  wagon  of  beehives  in  the  place  of  Prince, 
and  the  load  taken  on  towards  Casterbriclge. 

The  evening  of  the  same  day  saw  the  empty  wagon 
reach  again  the  spot  of  the  accident.  Prince  had  lain  there 
in  the  ditch  since  the  morning  5  bnt  the  place  of  the  blood 
pool  was  still  visible  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  though 
scratched  and  scraped  over  by  passing  vehicles.  All  that 
was  left  of  Prince  was  now  hoisted  into  the  wagon  he  had 
formerly  hauled,  and  with  his  hoofs  in  the  air,  and  his 
shoes  shining  in  the  setting  snnhght,  he  retraced  the  road 
to  Marlott. 

Tess  had  gone  in  front.  How  to  break  the  news  was 
more  than  she  conld  think.  It  was  a  relief  to  her  tongne 
to  find  from  the  faces  of  her  parents  that  they  already 
knew  of  their  loss,  thongh  this  did  not  lessen  the  self-re- 
proach which  she  continued  to  heap  npon  herself  for  her 
negligence  in  falling  asleep. 

Bnt  the  very  shiftlessness  of  the  household  rendered  the 
misfortune  a  less  terrifying  one  to  them  than  it  would  have 
been  to  a  striving  family,  though  in  the  present  case  it 
meant  ruin,  and  in  the  other  it  would  only  have  meant  in- 
convenience. In  the  Durbevfield  countenances  there  was 
nothing  of  the  red  wrath  that  would  have  burnt  upon  the 
girl  from  parents  more  ambitious  for  her  welfare.  Nobody 
blamed  Tess  as  she  blamed  herself. 

When  it  was  discovered  that  the  knacker  and  tanner 
would  give  only  a  very  few  shillings  for  Prince's  carcass 
because  of  his  decrepitude,  Durbej^eld  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"No,"  said  he,  stoically,  "I  won't  sell  his  old  body. 
When  we  D'Urbervilles  was  knights  in  the  land,  we  didn't 
sell  our  chargers  for  cat's  meat.  Let  'em  keep  theu'  shil- 
lings !  He  has  served  me  well  in  his  hf etime,  and  I  won't 
part  from  him  now." 

He  worked  harder  the  next  day  in  digging  a  grave  for 


34  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Prince  in  the  garden  than  he  had  worked  for  months  to 
grow  a  crop  for  his  family.  When  the  hole  was  ready, 
Diii'beyfield  and  his  wife  tied  a  roj)e  round  the  horse  and 
dragged  him  np  the  path  towards  it,  the  children  following. 
Abraham  and  'Liza  Lu  sobbed,  Hope  and  Modesty  dis- 
charged then'  gTiefs  in  loud  blares,  which  echoed  from  the 
walls;  and  when  Prince  was  tumbled  in  they  gathered 
round  the  grave.  The  bread-winner  had  been  taken  away 
from  them ;  what  would  they  do  ? 

''  Is  he  gone  to  heaven  ? "  asked  Abraham,  between  the 
sobs. 

Then  Durbe}^eld  began  to  shovel  in  the  earth,  and  the 
children  cried  anew.  All  except  Tess.  Her  face  was  dry 
and  pale,  as  though  she  regarded  herself  in  the  light  of  a 
murderess. 


V. 

The  higgling  business,  which  had  mainly  depended  on 
the  horse,  became  disorganized  forthwith.  Distress,  if  not 
penury,  loomed  in  the  distance.  Dui'bej^eld  was  what 
was  locally  called  a  slack-twisted  fellow;  he  had  good 
strength  to  work  at  times ;  but  the  times  could  not  be  reUed 
on  to  coincide  with  the  hours  of  requirement ;  and  having 
been  unaccustomed  to  the  regular  toil  of  the  day-laborer, 
he  was  not  particularly  persistent  when  they  did  so  co- 
incide. 

Tess,  meanwhile,  as  the  one  who  had  di'agged  them  into 
this  quagmire,  was  silently  wondering  what  she  could  do  to 
help  them  out  of  it;  and  then  her  mother  broached  her 
scheme. 

"  We  must  take  the  ups  wi'  the  downs,  Tess,"  said  she, ; 
''and  never  could  your  high  blood  have  been  found  out 
at  a  more  called-for  moment.     You  must  try  your  friends. 


THE  MAIDEN.  35 

Do  you  know  that  there  is  a  very  rich  Mrs.  D'Urberville 
living  out  on  the  edge  of  The  Chase,  who  must  be  our 
relation  ?  You  must  go  to  her  and  claim  kin,  and  ask  for 
some  help  in  our  trouble."' 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  do  that/'  says  Tess.  '^  If  there  is 
such  a  lady,  'twould  be  enough  for  us  if  she  were  friendly 
— not  to  expect  her  to  give  us  help." 

"You  could  win  her  round  to  do  anything,  my  dear. 
Besides,  perhaps  there's  more  in  it  than  you  know  of.  I've 
heard  what  I've  heard,  good-now." 

The  oppressive  sense  of  the  harm  she  had  done  led  Tess 
to  be  more  deferential  than  she  might  otherwise  have  been 
to  the  maternal  wish ;  but  she  could  not  understand  why 
her  mother  should  find  such  satisfaction  in  contemplating 
an  enterprise  of,  to  her,  such  doubtful  profit.  Her  mother 
might  have  made  inquiries,  and  have  discovered  that  this 
Mrs.  D'Urberville  was  a  lady  of  unequalled  vu'tues  and 
charity.  But  Tess's  pride  made  the  part  of  poor  relation 
one  of  particular  distaste  to  her. 

"  I'd  rather  try  to  get  work,"  she  murmured. 

"  Durbeyfleld,  you  can  settle  it,"  said  his  wife,  turning  to 
where  he  sat  in  the  background.  "  If  you  say  she  ought  to 
go,  she  wdll  go." 

"  I  don't  like  my  children  going  and  making  themselves 
beholden  to  strange  kin,"  miu'mui'ed  he.  "  I'm  the  head  of 
the  noblest  branch  of  the  family,  and  I  ought  to  hve  up 
to  it." 

His  reasons  for  staying  away  were  worse  to  Tess  than 
her  owTi  objection  to  going.  "  WeU,  as  I  killed  the  horse, 
mother,"  she  said,  mom'nfully,  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  do 
something.  I  don't  mind  going  and  seeing  her,  but  you 
must  leave  it  to  me  about  asking  for  help.  And  don't  go 
thinking  about  her  making  a  match  for  me — it  is  silly." 

"  Very  well  said,  Tess,"  observed  her  father,  sententiously. 

"  Who  said  I  had  such  a  thought  f "  asked  Joan. 

"  I  fancy  it  is  in  your  mind,  mother.     But  I'U  go." 


36  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Rising  early  next  day,  slie  walked  to  the  hill  town  called 
Shaston,  and  there  took  advantage  of  a  van  which  twice 
in  the  week  ran  from  Shaston  eastward  to  Chaseborongh, 
passing  near  Trantridge,  the  parish  in  w^hich  the  vague 
and  mvsterious  Mrs.  D'Url^erville  had  her  residence. 

Tess  Dnrbeyfield's  ronte  on  this  memorable  morning  lay 
amid  the  northeastern  nndulations  of  the  vale  in  which  she 
had  been  l^orn,  and  in  which  her  hfe  had  unfolded.  The 
Vale  of  Blackmoor  was  to  her  the  world,  and  its  inhabitants 
the  races  thereof.  From  the  gates  and  stiles  of  Marlott 
she  had  looked  do^vn  its  length  in  the  wondering  days  of 
infancy,  and  what  had  been  mystery  to  her  then  w^as  not 
much  less  than  mystery  to  her  now.  She  had  seen  daily 
from  her  chamber  window  towers,  villages,  faint  wliite 
mansions ;  above  all,  the  town  of  Shaston  standing  ma- 
jestically on  its  height ;  its  windows  shining  like  lamps  in 
the  evening  sun.  She  had  hardly  ever  visited  it,  only  a 
small  tract  even  of  the  vale  and  its  envii'ons  being  known 
to  her  by  close  inspection.  Much  less  had  she  been  far 
outside  the  vallev.  Every  contour  of  the  surrounding  hills 
was  as  personal  to  her  as  that  of  her  relatives'  faces ;  but 
for  what  lay  beyond,  her  judgment  was  dependent  on  the 
teaching  of  the  village  school,  where  she  had  held  a  leading 
place  in  a  high  standard  at  the  time  of  her  leaving,  a  year 
or  two  before  this  date. 

In  those  early  days  she  had  been  much  loved  by  others 
of  her  own  sex  and  age,  and  had  used  to  be  seen  about  the 
village  as  one  of  three,  all  nearly  of  the  same  year,  walking 
home  from  school  side  by  side,  Tess  being  the  middle  one 
— in  a  pink  print  j)inafore  of  a  finely  reticulated  pattern, 
worn  over  a  stuff  frock  that  had  lost  its  original  color  for  a 
nondescript  tertiary — marching  on  upon  long  stalky  legs, 
in  tight  stockings  which  had  little  ladder-like  holes  at  the 
knees,  torn  by  kneeling  in  the  roads  and  banks  in  search 
of  vegetable  and  mineral  treasures ;  her  then  earth-colored 
hair  hanging  like  pot-hooks ;  the  arms  of  the  two  outside 


THE  MAIDEN.  37 

girls  resting  round  the  waist  of  Tess;  her  arms  on  the 
slioiilders  of  the  two  supporters. 

As  Tess  grew  older,  and  l)egan  to  see  how  matters  stood, 
she  felt  quite  a  Malthusian  towards  her  mother  for  thought- 
lessly giving  her  so  many  little  sisters  and  brothers.  Her 
mother's  intelligence  was  that  of  a  happy  child :  Joan  Dur- 
beyfield  was  simply  an  additional  one,  and  that  not  the 
eldest,  to  her  own  long  family  of  waiters  on  Providence. 

Tess  became  humanely  beneficent  towards  the  small  ones, 
and  to  help  them  as  much  as  possible,  she  used,  as  soon  as 
she  left  school,  to  lend  a  hand  at  hay-making  or  harvesting 
on  neighboring  farms;  or,  by  preference,  at  milking  or 
butter-making  processes,  which  she  had  learnt  when  her 
father  had  owned  cows ;  and,  being  deft-fingered,  it  was  a 
kind  of  work  at  which  she  excelled. 

Every  day  seemed  to  throw  upon  her  young  shoulders 
more  of  the  family  burdens,  and  that  Tess  should  be  the 
representative  of  the  Durbeyfields  at  the  D'Urberville  man- 
sion came  as  a  thing  of  course.  In  this  instance  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  Durbe^-fields  were  putting  their  fairest 
side  outward. 

She  alighted  from  the  van  at  Trantridge  Cross,  and  as- 
cended on  foot  a  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  district  known 
as  The  Chase,  on  the  borders  of  which,  as  she  had  been 
informed,  Mrs.  D'Urberville's  seat.  The  Slopes,  would  be 
found.  It  was  not  a  manorial  home  in  the  ordinarv  sense, 
with  fields  and  pastures,  and  a  grumbling  farmer,  out  of 
which  a  living  had  to  be  di^agged  by  the  owner  and  his 
family  by  hook  or  crook.  It  was  more,  far  more,  a  country 
house,  built  for  enjopnent  pure  and  simple,  with  not  an 
acre  of  troublesome  land  attached  to  it  beyond  what  was 
required  for  residential  purposes,  and  a  little  fancy  farm 
kept  in  hand  by  the  owner,  and  tended  by  a  bailiff. 

The  warm  red-brick  lodge  came  first  in  sight,  up  to  its 
eaves  in  dense  evergreens.  Tess  thought  this  was  the 
mansion  itself,  till,  passing  through  the  side  ^dcket  with 


38  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

some  trepidation,  and  onward  to  a  point  at  whicli  the  drive 
took  a  turn,  the  house  proper  stood  in  full  view.  It  was 
of  recent  erection — indeed  almost  new — and  of  the  same 
rich  crimson  color  that  formed  such  a  contrast  with  the 
evergreens  of  the  lodge.  Far  behind  the  bright-hued  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  which  rose  like  a  red  geranium  against 
the  subdued  colors  around,  stretched  the  soft  azure  land- 
scape of  The  Chase,  a  truly  venerable  tract  of  forest-land, 
one  of  the  few  remaining  woodlands  in  England,  of  almost 
primeval  date,  wherein  Druidical  mistletoe  was  still  found 
on  aged  oaks,  and  where  enormous  yew-trees,  not  planted 
by  the  hand  of  man,  grew  as  they  had  gro^m  when  they 
were  pollarded  for  bows.  All  this  sylvan  antiquity,  how- 
ever, though  visible  from  The  Slopes,  was  outside  the  im- 
mediate boundaries  of  the  estate. 

Everything  on  this  snug  property  was  bright,  thri\dng, 
and  well  kept;  acres  of  glass  houses  stretched  down  the 
inclines  to  the  copses  at  their  feet.  Everything  looked  hke 
money — like  the  last  coin  issued  from  the  Mint.  The  stables, 
partly  screened  by  Austrian  pines  and  evergi^een  oaks,  and 
fitted  mth  every  late  appliance,  were  as  dignified  as  chapels- 
of-ease,  and  on  the  extensive  lawn  stood  an  ornamental  tent, 
its  door  being  towards  her. 

Simple  Tess  Durbeyfield  stood  at  gaze,  in  a  half-paralj'zed 
attitude,  on  the  edge  of  the  gravel  sweep.  Her  feet  had 
brought  her  onward  to  this  point  l^efore  she  had  quite 
realized  where  she  was ;  and  now  all  was  contrary  to  her 
expectation. 

''I  thought  we  were  an  old  family,  but  this  is  all  new!" 
she  said,  in  her  girlish  artlessness.  She  mshed  that  she 
had  not  fallen  in  so  readily  with  her  mother's  plans  for 
"claiming  kin,"  and  had  endeavored  to  gain  assistance 
nearer  home. 

The  D'Urbervilles — or  Stoke-D'Urbervilles,  as  they  some- 
times called  themselves — who  owned  all  this,  were  a  some- 
what unusual  family  to  find  in  this  old-fashioned  part  of 


THE   MAIDEN.  39 

the  country.  Parson  Tringham  had  spoken  truly  Avhen 
he  said  that  our  shambling  John  Durbeyfield  was  the  only 
really  lineal  representative  of  the  old  D'Urberville  family 
existing  in  the  county,  or  near  it ;  he  might  have  added, 
what  he  knew  very  well,  that  the  Stoke-D'Urbervilles  were 
no  more  D'Urbervilles  of  the  true  tree  than  he  was  him- 
self. Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  this  familv  formed  a 
very  good  stock  whereon  to  regraft  a  name  which  sadly 
wanted  such  renovation. 

When  old  Mr.  Simon  Stoke,  latterly  deceased,  had  made 
his  fortune  as  an  honest  merchant  (some  said  money-lender) 
in  the  north,  he  decided  to  settle  as  a  county  man  in  the 
south  of  England,  out  of  hail  of  his  business  district;  and 
in  doing  this  he  felt  the  necessity  of  recommencing  with 
a  name  that  would  not  too  readily  identify  him  with  the 
smart  tradesman  of  the  past,  and  that  would  be  less  com- 
monplace than  the  original  bald  stark  words.  Conning 
for  an  hour  in  the  British  Museum  the  pages  of  works  de- 
voted to  extinct,  half-extinct,  obscui-ed,  and  lost  families 
appertaining  to  the  quarter  of  England  in  which  he  pro- 
posed to  settle,  he  considered  that  D'  UrherviUe  looked  and 
sounded  as  well  as  any  of  them ;  and  D'Urberville  accord- 
ingly was  annexed  to  his  own  for  himself  and  his  heirs 
eternally.  Yet  he  was  not  an  extravagant-minded  man  in 
this,  and  in  constructing  his  family  tree  on  the  new  basis 
was  duly  reasonable  in  framing  his  intermarriages  and 
aristocratic  links,  never  inserting  a  single  title  above  a 
r;ink  of  strict  moderation. 

Of  this  work  of  imagination  poor  Tess  and  her  parents 
Vv^re  naturally  in  ignorance — much  to  their  ovtd.  discom- 
fiture; indeed,  the  very  possibility  of  such  annexations 
was  unknown  to  them,  who  supposed  that  though  to  be 
well  favored  might  be  the  gift  of  fortune,  a  family  name 
came  bv  nature. 

Tess  still  stood  hesitating,  like  a  bather  about  to  make 
his  plunge,  hardly  knowing  whether  to  retreat  or  to  per- 


40  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

severe,  when  a  figiu'e  came  forth  from  the  dark  triangular 
door  of  the  tent.     It  was  that  of  a  tall  yonng  man,  smoking. 

He  had  an  almost  swarthy  complexion,  with  full  lips, 
badly  moulded,  though  red  and  smooth,  above  which  w^as 
a  well-groomed  black  mustache  with  curled  points,  though 
his  age  could  not  be  more  than  three-  or  foiu'-and-twent3\ 
Yet,  despite  the  touches  of  barbarism  in  his  contours,  there 
was  a  singular  force  in  the  gentleman's  face,  and  in  his 
bold  rolling  eye. 

"Well,  my  big  beauty,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  said  he, 
airily,  coming  forward.  And,  perceiving  that  she  stood 
quite  confounded:  "Never  mind  me.  I  am  Mr.  Stoke- 
D'Urberville.     Have  you  come  to  see  me  or  my  mother  ? " 

This  embodiment  of  a  Stoke-D'Urberville  and  a  name- 
sake differed  even  more  from  what  Tess  had  expected  than 
the  house  and  grounds  had  differed.  She  had  dreamed 
of  an  aged  and  dignified  face,  the  sublimation  of  all  dis- 
tinctive D'Urberville  lineaments,  fiuTowed  with  incarnate 
memories,  representing  in  hieroglyphic  the  centuries  of  her 
family  and  England's  history.  But  she  screwed  herself  up 
to  the  work  in  hand,  since  she  could  not  get  out  of  it,  and 
answered : 

"  I  came  to  see  your  mother,  sir." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  see  her — she  is  an  invalid,"  re- 
plied the  present  representative  of  the  spurious  house ;  for 
he  was  Mr.  Alec,  the  only  son  of  the  lately  deceased  gen- 
tleman. "  Cannot  I  answer  your  purpose  1  What  is  the 
business  you  wish  to  see  her  about  ? " 

"  It  isn't  business ;  it  is — I  can  hardly  say  what !  " 

"Pleasure?" 

"  Oh  no.     Wliy,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  it  vnll  seem " 

Tess's  sense  of  the  extreme  silliness  of  her  errand  was 
now  so  strong  that,  notwithstanding  her  awe  of  him  and 
her  general  discomfort  at  being  here,  her  rosy  lips  curved 
towards  a  smile,  much  to  the  attraction  of  the  swarthy 
Alexander. 


THE  MAIDEN,  41 

^'It  is  SO  very  foolisli/'  she  stammered;  ^'I  fear  I  can't 
teU  'ee ! '' 

"Never  mind;  I  like  foolish  things.  Try  again,  my 
dear/'  said  he,  kindly. 

"  Mother  asked  me  to  come/'  Tess  continued ;  "  and,  in- 
deed, I  was  inclined  to  do  so  myself,  likewise.  But  I  did 
not  think  it  would  be  like  this.  I  came,  sii^,  to  tell  you 
that  we  be  of  the  same  family  as  you.'' 

"  Ho !     Poor  relations ! " 

"  Yes." 

"  Stokes  ? " 

"No;  D'Urbervilles." 

"  Ay,  ay ;  I  mean  D'Urbervilles." 

"  Our  names  are  corrupted  to  Durbeyfield ;  but  we  have 
several  proofs  that  we  be  D'Urber\alles.  Antiquarians  say 
we  are — and — and  we  have  a  very  old  silver  spoon,  round 
in  the  bowl,  hke  a  httle  ladle,  with  a  ramping  lion  on  the 
handle,  and  a  castle  over  Mm.  But  it  is  so  old  that  mother 
uses  it  to  stir  the  pea  soup." 

"  A  castle  argent  is  certainly  my  crest,"  said  he,  blandly. 

"And  so  mother  said  we  ought  to  make  ourselves  be- 
known  to  you,  as  we've  lost  oiu-  horse  by  a  bad  accident, 
and  are  the  oldest  branch  o'  the  family." 

"Very  kind  of  yom*  mother,  Tm  sure.  And  I,  for  one, 
don't  regret  her  step."  Alec  looked  at  Tess  as  he  spoke 
in  a  way  that  made  her  blush  a  little.  "And  so,  my 
pretty  gu4,  you've  come  on  a  friendly  \dsit  to  us,  as  rela- 
tions ! " 

"  I  suppose  I  have,"  faltered  Tess,  looking  round  at  the 
mansion. 

"Well — there's  no  harm  in  it.  Where  do  you  live? 
What  are  you  f " 

She  gave  him  brief  particulars ;  and,  after  further  in- 
quiries, told  him  that  she  was  intending  to  go  back  by  the 
same  carrier  who  had  brought  her. 

"It  is  a  long  while  before  he  returns  past  Trantridge 


42  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Cross.  Supposing  we  walk  round  the  grounds  to  pass  the 
thne,  my  pretty  coz  ? '' 

Tess  wished  to  abrid-ge  her  \dsit  as  much  as  possible,  but 
the  young  man  was  pressing,  and  she  consented  to  accom- 
pany him.  He  conducted  her  about  the  lawns  and  flower- 
beds and  conservatories,  and  thence  to  the  fruit-garden, 
where  he  asked  her  if  she  liked  strawberries. 

^'  Yes,"  said  Tess,  "  when  they  come." 

'^  They  are  already  here."  D'Urberville  began  gathering 
specimens  of  the  fruit  for  her,  handing  them  back  to  her  as 
he  stooped ;  and  presently,  selecting  a  specially  fine  prod- 
uct of  the  "  British  Queen  "  variety,  he  stood  up,  and  held 
it  bv  the  stem  to  her  mouth. 

"No,  no  !  "  she  said,  quickly,  putting  her  fingers  between 
his  hand  and  her  lips.  "  I  would  rather  take  it,  sir,  in  my 
own  hand." 

"Nonsense!"  he  insisted;  and,  in  a  shght  distress,  she 
parted  her  hps  and  took  it  in. 

They  had  spent  some  time  wandering  desultorily  thus, 
Tess  eating,  in  a  half -pleased,  half -reluctant  state,  whatever 
D'Urber^dlle  offered  her.  When  she  could  consume  no 
more  of  the  strawberries,  he  filled  her  little  basket  with 
them ;  and  then  the  two  passed  round  to  the  rose-trees, 
whence  he  gathered  blossoms,  and  gave  her  to  put  in  her 
bosom.  She  obeyed  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  when  she 
could  affix  no  more  he  himself  tucked  a  bud  or  two  into 
her  hat,  and  heaped  her  basket  with  them,  in  the  prodi- 
gality of  his  bounty.  At  last,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  said  : 
"  Now,  by  the  time  you  have  had  something  to  eat,  it  mil 
be  time  for  vou  to  leave,  if  vou  want  to  catch  the  carrier 
to  Shaston.     Come  here,  and  I'll  see  what  grub  I  can  find." 

Stoke-D'Urberville  took  her  back  to  the  lawn  and  into 
the  tent,  where  he  left  her,  soon  reappearing  with  a  basket 
of  light  luncheon,  which  he  put  before  her  himself.  It 
was  evidently  the  young  gentleman's  wish  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed in  this  pleasant  tete-d-tete  by  the  servantry. 


THE  IVIAIDEX.  43 

"  Do  you  mind  my  smoking  ? ''  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  si." 

He  watched  her  pretty  and  nnconscious  mnnehing 
through  the  skeins  of  smoke  that  pervaded  the  tent,  and 
Tess  Durbevfield  did  not  divine,  as  she  innocent! v  looked 
down  at  the  roses  in  her  bosom,  that  there,  behind  the  blue 
narcotic  haze,  was  potentially  the  'Hragic  mischief"  of  her 
drama — one  who  stood  fair  to  be  the  blood-red  ray  in  the 
spectrum  of  her  young  life.  She  had  an  attribute  which 
amounted  to  a  disadvantage  just  now ;  and  it  was  tliis  that 
caused  Alec  D'Urberville's  eyes  to  rivet  themselves  upon 
her.  It  was  a  luxuriance  of  aspect,  a  fulness  of  growth, 
which  made  her  appear  more  of  a  woman  than  she  really 
was.  She  had  inherited  the  feature  from  her  mother, 
without  the  quality  it  denoted.  It  had  troubled  her  mind 
occasionally,  till  her  companions  had  said  that  it  was  a  fault 
which  time  would  cure. 

She  soon  had  finished  her  lunch.  ^'Now  I  am  going 
home,  sir,"  she  said,  rising. 

"And  what  do  thev  call  vou?"  he  asked,  as  he  accom- 
panied  her  along  the  drive  till  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
house. 

"  Tess  Durbeyfield  do^vn  at  Marlott,  sir." 

'^  And  you  say  your  people  have  lost  their  horse  ? " 

"  I — killed  him !  "  she  answered,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears  as  she  gave  particulars  of  Prince's  death.  "And  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  for  father  on  account  of  it !  '^ 

"  I  must  think  if  I  cannot  do  something.  My  mother 
must  find  a  berth  for  you.     But,  Tess,  no  nonsense  about 

t/'  7  7 

' D'UrberviUe ' ;  'Durbeyfield'  only,  you  know — quite  an- 
other name." 

"  I  wish  for  no  better,  sir,"  said  she,  calming  herself 
well-nigh  to  dignity. 

For  a  moment — only  for  a  moment — when  they  were  in 
the  turning  of  the  drive,  between  the  tall  rhododendrons 
and  laurestines,  before  the  lodge  became  visible,  he  inclined 


44  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

his  face  towards  her  as  if —    But,  no !  he  thought  better 
of  it,  and  let  her  go. 

Thus  the  thing  began.  Had  she  perceived  this  meeting's 
import,  she  might  have  asked  why  she  was  doomed  to  be 
seen  and  marked  and  coveted  that  day  by  the  ^^T:'ong  man, 
and  not  by  a  certain  other  man,  the  right  and  desired  one 
in  all  respects — as  nearly  as  humauity  can  supply  the  right 
and  desii^ed;  yet  to  Mm  who  amongst  her  acquaintance 
might  have  approximated  to  this  kind  she  was  but  a  tran- 
sient impression,  half -forgotten. 

In  the  ill-judged  execution  of  the  well-judged  plan  of 
things,  the  call  seldom  produces  the  comer,  the  man  to  love 
rarely  coincides  with  the  hour  for  loving.  Nature  does  not 
often  say  ^'  See ! ''  to  a  poor  creature  at  a  time  when  see- 
ing can  lead  to  happy  doing ;  or  reply  "■  Here  !  "  to  a  body's 
cry  of  ""^^Tiere?"  till  the  hide-and-seek  has  become  an 
irksome,  outworn  game.  We  may  wonder  whether  at  the 
acme  and  summit  of  the  human  progress  these  anachro- 
nisms "v^dll  become  corrected  by  a  finer  intuition,  a  closer 
interaction  of  the  social  machinery  than  that  which  now 
jolts  us  round  and  along ;  but  such  completeness  is  not  to 
be  prophesied,  or  even  conceived  as  possible.  Enough  that 
in  the  present  case,  as  in  millions,  the  two  halves  of  an  ap- 
proximately perfect  whole  did  not  confront  each  other  at 
the  perfect  moment;  part  and  counterpart  wandered  inde- 
pendently about  the  earth  in  the  stupidest  manner  for  a 
while,  till  the  late  time  came.  Out  of  which  maladroit  de- 
lay sprang  anxieties,  disappointments,  shocks,  catastrophes 
— and  what  Avas  called  a  strauge  destiny. 

When  D'Urberville  got  back  to  the  tent,  he  sat  down 
astride  on  a  chair,  reflecting,  with  a  pleased  gleam  in  his 
face.     Then  he  broke  into  a  loud  lauah. 

''Well,  Pm  damned!  What  a  funny  thing!  Ha-ha-ha! 
And  what  a  charming  giii ! '' 


THE  MAIDEN.  45 


VI. 

Tess  went  down  the  liill  to  Trantriclge  Cross,  and  auto- 
matical! v  waited  to  take  her  seat  in  the  van  retnrnine:  from 
Chaseborough  to  Shaston.  She  did  not  know  what  the 
other  occupants  said  to  her  as  she  entered,  though  she  an- 
swered them ;  and  when  they  had  started  anew  she  rode 
along  with  an  inward  and  not  an  outward  eye. 

One  among  her  fellow-travellers  addressed  her  more 
pointedly  than  any  had  spoken  before :  ''  Why,  you  be 
quite  a  posy  !     And  such  roses  in  early  June  !  " 

Then  she  became  aAvare  of  the  spectacle  she  presented  to 
their  surprised  vision ;  roses  at  her  breast ;  roses  in  her 
hat ;  roses  and  strawberries  in  her  basket  to  the  brim. 
She  blushed,  and  said,  confusedly,  that  the  flowers  had  been 
given  to  her ;  when  the  passengers  were  not  looking,  she 
stealthily  removed  the  more  prominent  blooms  from  her 
hat  and  placed  them  in  the  basket,  where  she  covered  them 
wdth  her  handkerchief.  Then  she  fell  to  reflecting  again, 
and  in  looking  downwards  a  thorn  of  the  rose  remaining 
in  her  breast  accidentally  pricked  her  chin.  Like  all  the 
cottagers  of  Blackmoor  Vale,  Tess  was  steeped  in  fancies 
and  prefigurative  superstitions ;  she  thought  this  an  ill 
omen — the  first  she  had  noticed  that  day. 

The  van  travelled  only  so  far  as  Shaston,  and  there  were 
several  miles  of  pedestrian  descent  from  that  mountain 
town  into  the  vale  to  Marlott.  Her  mother  had  advised 
her  to  stay  here  for  the  night,  at  the  house  of  a  cottage 
woman  thev  knew,  if  she  felt  too  tii'ed  to  come  on :  and 
this  Tess  did,  not  descending  to  her  home  till  the  f  ollo^\T.ng 
afternoon. 

When  she  entered  the  house  she  perceived  in  a  moment 
from  her  mother's  triumphant  manner  that  something  had 
occurred  in  the  interim. 


46  TESS   OF  THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  know  all  about  it !  I  told  you  it  would  be 
all  right,  and  now  'tis  proved." 

''Since  I've  been  away?  What  has?"  said  Tess,  rather 
wearily. 

Her  mother  surveyed  the  gu-1  up  and  down  with  arch 
approval,  and  went  on,  banteringly,  "  So  you've  brought 
'em  round !  " 

''  How  do  you  know,  mother  ? " 

''  I've  had  a  letter." 

Tess  then  remembered  that  there  would  have  been  just 
time  for  this. 

"  They  say — Mrs.  D'Urberville  says — that  she  wants  you 
to  look  after  a  little  poultry  farm  which  is  her  hobby. 
But  this  is  only  her  artful  way  of  getting  you  there  with- 
out raising  j^our  hopes.  She's  going  to  acknowledge  'ee  as 
kin — that's  the  meaning  o't." 

"  But  I  didn't  see  her." 

"You  zeed  somebody,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  saw  her  son." 

''  And  did  he  acknowledge  'ee  ?  " 

"  Well — he  called  me  coz." 

''  An'  I  knew  it !  Jackv,  he  called  her  coz  !  "  cried  Joan 
to  her  husband.  "  WeU,  he  spoke  to  his  mother,  of  course, 
and  she  do  want  'ee  there." 

"But  I  don't  know  that  I  am  apt  at  managing  fowls," 
said  the  dubious  Tess. 

"  Then  I  don't  know  who  is  apt.  You've  ben  born  in 
the  business,  and  brought  up  in  it.  Them  thet's  born  in  a 
business  always  know  more  about  it  than  any  'prentice. 
Besides,  that's  only  just  a  show  of  something  for  you  to 
do,  that  you  midn't  feel  dependent." 

"I  don't  altogether  think  I  ought  to  go,"  said  Tess, 
thoughtfully.  "Whowi'ote  the  letter?  Will  you  let  me 
look  at  it  ? '' 

"  Mrs.  D'Urberville  wrote  it.     Here  it  is." 

The  letter  was  in  the  third  person,  and  briefly  informed 


THE  ]\IAIDEN.  47 

Mrs.  Dnrbeyfield  that  her  daughter's  services  would  be 
useful  to  that  lady  in  the  management  of  her  poultry  farm, 
that  a  comfortable  room  would  be  provided  for  her  if  she 
could  come,  and  that  the  emolument  would  be  on  a  liberal 
scale  if  they  liked  her. 

''O— that's  all,"  said  Tess. 

"  You  couldn't  expect  her  to  throw  her  arms  round  'ee, 
an'  to  kiss  and  to  coll  'ee  all  at  once." 

Tess  looked  out  of  the  window.  ''I  would  rather  stay 
here  with  father  and  you/'  she  said. 

"  But  whv  I " 

"I'd  rather  not  tell  you  why,  mother-  indeed,  I  don't 
quite  know  why." 

A  week  afterwards  she  came  in  one  evening  from  an  un- 
availing search  for  some  light  occupation  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood.  Her  idea  had  been  to  get  together  sufficient 
money  during  the  summer  to  pui'chase  another  horse. 
Hardly  had  she  crossed  the  threshold  before  one  of  the 
children  danced  across  the  room,  saying,  "  The  gentleman 
has  been  here  !  " 

Her  mother  hastened  to  explain,  smiles  breaking  from 
every  inch  of  her  person.  Mrs.  D'Ui*ber\dlle's  son  had 
called  on  horseback,  having  been  riding  by  chance  in  the 
direction  of  Marlott.  He  had  mslied  to  know,  finally,  in 
the  name  of  his  mother,  if  Tess  could  really  come  to  man- 
age the  old  lady's  fowl  farm  or  not,  the  lad  who  had 
hitherto  superintended  the  birds  having  proved  untrust- 
worthy. "  Mr.  D'Urberville  says  you  must  be  a  good  girl 
if  you  are  at  all  as  you  appear ;  he  knows  you  must  be 
worth  your  iveight  in  gold.  He  is  very  much  interested  in 
'ee — truth  to  tell." 

Tess  seemed  for  the  moment  really  pleased  to  hear  that 
she  had  won  such  high  opinion  from  a  stranger  when,  in 
her  own  esteem,  she  had  sunk  so  low.  "  It  is  veiy  good  of 
him  to  think  that,"  she  murmured ;  "  and  if  I  was  quite 
sure  how  it  would  be  h\ing  there  I  would  go  any- when." 


48  TESS  OF  THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

^'  He  is  a  mighty  handsome  man." 

''  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Tess,  coldly. 

"  Well,  there's  your  chance,  whether  or  no ;  and  I'm  sure 
he  wears  a  beautiful  diamond  ring !  " 

"Yes,"  said  little  Abraham,  brightly,  from  the  window 
bench ;  "  and  I  seed  it !  and  it  did  twinkle  when  he  put  his 
hand  up  to  his  mistarshers.  Mother,  why  did  our  noble 
relation  keep  on  putting  his  hand  wp  to  his  mistarshers?" 

"  Hark  at  that  child !  "  cried  Mrs.  Durbeyfleld,  with  par- 
enthetic admiration. 

''Perhaps  to  show  his  diamond  ring,"  murmured  Sir 
John,  dreamily,  from  his  chau\ 

''  I'll  think  it  over,"  said  Tess,  leaving  the  room. 

''  Well,  she's  made  a  conquest  o'  the  junior  branch  of  us, 
straight  off,"  continued  the  matron  to  her  husband,  "  and 
she's  a  fool  if  she  don't  follow  it  up." 

"  I  don't  quite  like  my  children  going  away  from  home," 
said  the  higgler.  ''As  the  head  of  the  family,  the  rest 
ought  to  come  to  me." 

"  But  do  let  her  go,  Jacky,"  coaxed  his  poor  "witless  wife. 
"  He's  struck  wi'  her — vou  can  see  that.  He  called  her  coz  ! 
He'U  marry  her,  most  likely,  and  make  a  lady  of  her ;  and 
then  she'll  be  what  her  forefathers  was." 

John  Durbeyfield  had  more  conceit  than  energy  or 
health,  and  this  supposition  was  pleasant  to  him.  "  Well, 
perhaps  that's  what  young  Mr.  D'Urber\alle  means,"  he  ad- 
mitted, "  and  he  reaUy  may  have  serious  thoughts  about 
improving  his  blood  by  linking  on  to  the  old  line.  Tess, 
the  little  rogue !  And  have  she  really  paid  'em  a  ^dsit  to 
such  an  end  as  this  ? " 

Meanwhile  Tess  was  walking  thoughtfully  among  the 
gooseberry-bushes  in  the  garden,  and  over  Prince's  grave. 
When  she  came  in,  her  mother  pursued  her  advantage. 
"  Well,  what  be  you  going  to  do  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  wish  I  had  seen  Mrs.  D'Urberville,"  said  Tess. 


THE  ]\L\IDEN.  49 

^^  I  tliink  you  mid  as  well  settle  it.  Then  you'll  see  her 
soon  enough." 

Her  father  coughed  in  his  chair. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say/'  answered  the  gii*l,  restlessly. 
"  It  is  for  you  to  decide.  I  killed  the  old  horse,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  do  something  to  get  ye  a  new  one.  But — 
I  )ut— I  don't  quite  like  Mr.  D'Urber\dlle  !  " 

The  children,  who  had  made  use  of  this  idea  of  Tess 
being  taken  up  by  their  wealthy  kinsfolk  (as  they  imagined 
the  other  family  to  be)  as  a  species  of  dolorifuge  after  the 
death  of  the  horse,  began  to  cry  at  Tess's  reluctance^  and 
teased  and  reproached  her  for  hesitating. 

'^  Tess  won't  go  and  be  made  a  la — a — dy  of !  No,  she 
says  she  wo — o — on't !  "  they  wailed,  with  square  mouths. 
''And  we  shan't  have  a  nice  new  horse,  and  lots  o'  golden 
money  to  buy  fairlings !  And  Tess  won't  look  pretty  in 
her  best  cloze  no  mo — o — ore  !  " 

Her  mother  chimed  in  to  the  same  tune ;  a  certain  way 
she  had  of  making  her  labors  in  the  house  seem  heavier 
than  thev  were  bv  prolonHno^  them  indefinitely  also  weio'hed 
in  the  argument.  Her  father  alone  preserved  an  attitude 
of  neutrality. 

"  I  ^yill  go,"  said  Tess  at  last. 

Her  mother  could  not  repress  her  consciousness  of  the 
nuptial  Vision  conjured  up  by  the  girl's  consent.  "  That's 
right !     For  such  a  pretty  gii'l,  it  is  a  fine  chance  !  " 

''  I  hope  it  is  a  chance  for  earning  money.  It  is  no  other 
kind  of  chance.  You  had  better  say  nothing  of  that  sULy 
sort  about  parish." 

Mrs.  Durbeyfield  did  not  promise.  She  was  not  quite 
sure  that  she  did  not  feel  proud  enough,  after  the  visitoi'^s 
remarks,  to  say  a  good  deal. 

Thus  it  was  arranged ;  and  the  young  girl  "^vi'ote,  agree- 
ing to  be  ready  to  set  out  on  any  day  on  which  she  might 
be  required.     She  was  duly  informed  that  Mrs.  D'Urber- 

4 


50  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

ville  was  glad  of  her  decision,  and  that  a  spring  cart  should 
be  sent  to  meet  her  and  her  luggage  at  the  top  of  the  Vale 
on  the  day  after  the  morrow,  when  she  must  hold  herself 
prepared  to  start.  Mrs.  D'Urberville's  handwriting  seemed 
rather  masculine. 

"  A  cart  ?  ^'  murmui'ed  Joan  Dui'beyfield,  doubtingty. 

HaAdng  at  last  taken  her  coui'se,  Tess  was  less  restless 
and  abstracted,  going  about  her  business  with  some  self- 
assurance  in  the  thought  of  acquiring  another  horse  for  her 
father  by  an  occupation  which  would  not  be  onerous.  She 
had  hoped  to  be  a  teacher  at  the  school,  but  the  fates  seemed 
to  decide  otherwise.  Being  mentally  older  than  her  mother, 
she  did  not  regard  Mrs.  Durbej^eld's  matrimonial  hopes  for 
her  in  a  serious  aspect  for  a  moment.  The  light-minded 
woman  had  beeii  discovering  good  matches  for  her  daughter 
almost  from  the  year  of  her  birth. 


VII. 

On  the  morning  appointed  for  her  departure  Tess  w^as 
awake  before  dawn — at  the  marginal  minute  of  the  dark 
when  the  grove  is  still  mute  save  for  one  prophetic  bird,  who 
sings  with  a  clear-voiced  conviction  that  he  at  least  knows 
the  correct  time  of  day,  the  rest  preserving  silence,  as  if 
equally  convinced  that  he  is  mistaken.  She  remained  up- 
stairs packing  tiU  breakfast-time,  and  then  came  down  in 
her  ordinaiy  working-clothes,  her  Sunday  apparel  being 
carefully  folded  in  her  box. 

Her  mother  expostulated.  "  You  wiU  never  set  out  to 
see  your  folks  without  dressing  up  more  the  dand  than 
that  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  going  to  work  !  "  said  Tess. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Durbeyfield ;  adding,  in  a  private 


THE  MAIDEN.  51 

tone,  '^  at  first  there  may  be  a  little  pretence  o't.  .  .  .  But  I 
think  it  will  be  wiser  of  'ee  to  put  your  best  side  outward," 
she  said. 

"  Very  weYl ;  I  suppose  you  know  best,"  replied  Tess,  with 
calm  indifference.  And  to  please  her  parent  the  girl  put 
herself  quite  in  Joan's  hands,  saying,  serenely,  "Do  what 
you  like  with  me,  mother." 

Mrs.  Durbeyfield  was  only  too  delighted  at  this  tracta- 
bility.  First  she  fetched  a  great  basin,  and  washed  Tess's 
hair  with  such  thoroughness  that  when  dried  and  brushed  it 
looked  twice  as  much  as  at  other  times.  She  tied  it  with  a 
broader  red  ribbon  than  usual.  Then  she  put  upon  her  the 
white  frock  that  Tess  had  worn  at  the  club-walking,  the 
airy  fulness  of  wliich,  supplementing  her  enlarged  coiffure, 
imparted  to  her  developing  flgui'e  an  amphtude  which  be- 
lied her  age,  and  might  cause  her  to  be  addressed  as  a 
woman  when  she  was  not  much  more  than  a  child. 

"  I  declare,  there's  a  hole  in  my  stocking  heel ! "  said 
Tess. 

"  Never  mind  holes  in  your  stockings — they  don't  speak ! 
When  I  was  a  maid,  so  long  as  I  had  a  pretty  bonnet,  the 
devil  might  ha'  found  me  in  heels." 

Her  mother's  pride  in  the  girl's  appearance  led  her  to  step 
back,  like  a  painter  from  his  easel,  and  siu'vey  her  work  as  a 
whole.  "  You  must  see  yourself,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  much 
better  than  you  was  t'other  day." 

As  the  looking-glass  was  only  large  enough  to  reflect  a 
very  small  portion  of  Tess's  person  at  one  time,  Mrs.  Dur- 
beyfield hung  a  black  cloak  outside  the  casement,  and  so 
made  a  large  reflector  of  the  panes,  as  it  is  the  wont  of  be- 
decking cottagers  to  do.  After  this  she  went  downstairs 
to  her  husband,  who  was  sitting  in  the  lower  room. 

"  I'll  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  Durbeyfield,"  said  she,  exultingly, 
"  he'll  never  have  the  heart  not  to  love  her.  But  whatever 
you  do,  don't  say  too  much  to  Tess  of  his  fancy  for  her  and 
this  chance  she  has  got.     She  is  such  an  odd  maid  that  it 


52  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

mid  set  her  against  liim,  or  against  going  there  even  now. 
If  all  goes  well,  I  shall  certainly  be  for  making  some  return 
to  that  pa'son  at  Stagfoot  Lane  for  telling  ns — dear  good 
man !  " 

However,  as  the  moment  for  the  girl's  setting  out  drew 
nigh,  when  the  first  excitement  of  the  di*essing  had  passed 
off,  a  slight  misgiving  found  place  in  Joan  Durbeyfield's 
mind.  It  prompted  the  matron  to  say  that  she  wonld  walk 
a  little  way — as  far  as  to  the  point  where  the  acchvity  from 
the  valley  began  its  first  steep  ascent  to  the  outer  world. 
At  the  top  Tess  was  going  to  be  met  with  the  spring  cart 
sent  by  the  D'Urbervilles,  and  her  box  had  already  been 
wheeled  ahead  towards  this  summit  by  a  lad  with  trucks, 
to  be  in  readiness. 

Seeing  their  mother  put  on  her  bonnet,  the  younger 
children  clamored  to  go  with  her.  "  I  do  want  to  walk  a 
little  ways  wi'  Sissy,  now  she's  going  to  marry  our  gentle- 
man cousin,  and  wear  fine  cloze  !  '^ 

"  Now,"  said  Tess,  flushing  and  turning  quickly,  ^'  I'll  hear 
no  more  o'  that !  Mother,  how  could  you  ever  put  such 
stuff  into  their  heads  1 " 

^'  Going  to  work,  my  dears,  for  our  rich  relation,  and  help 
get  enough  money  for  a  new  horse,"  said  Mrs.  Durbeyfield, 
pacifically. 

"  Good-by,  father,"  said  Tess,  with  a  lumpy  throat. 

'^  Good-by,  my  maid,"  said  Sir  John,  raising  his  head  from 
his  breast,  as  he  suspended  his  nap,  induced  by  a  slight 
excess  this  morning  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  "Well,  I 
hope  my  young  friend  will  like  such  a  comely  sample  of 
his  own  blood.  And  teU'n,  Tess,  that  being  reduced  quite 
from  our  former  grandeur,  I'll  sell  him  the  title — yes,  sell 
it — and  at  no  onreasonable  figure." 

^^  Not  for  less  than  a  thousand  poimd !  "  cried  Lady  Dur- 
beyfield. 

"  Tell'n — I'll  take  a  thousand  pound.  Well,  I'll  take  less, 
when  I  come  to  think  o't.     He'U  adorn  it  better  than  a 


THE   MAIDEN.  53 

poor  broken-down  feller  like  myself  can.  TelPn  lie  shall 
hae  it  for  a  hundred.  But  I  won't  stand  upon  trifles — 
tell'n  he  shall  hae  it  for  fifty — for  twenty  pound !  Yes, 
twenty  pound — that's  the  lowest.  Damniy,  family  honor 
is  family  honor^  and  I  won't  take  a  penny  less  ! '' 

Tess's  eyes  were  too  full  and  her  voice  too  choked  to 
utter  the  bitter  reproaches  that  were  in  her.  She  turned 
quickly  and  went  out. 

So  the  girls  and  theii*  mother  all  walked  together — a 
child  on  each  side  of  Tess,  holding  her  hand,  and  looking 
at  her  meditatively  from  time  to  time,  as  at  one  who  was 
about  to  do  great  things ;  her  mother  just  behind — the 
group  forming  a  picture  of  honest  beauty  flanked  by  inno- 
cence and  backed  by  simple-souled  vanity.  They  followed 
the  way  till  they  reached  the  beginning  of  the  ascent,  on 
the  crest  of  which  the  vehicle  from  Trantridge  was  to  re- 
ceive her,  this  limit  having  been  fixed  to  save  the  horse 
the  labor  of  the  slope.  Far  away  behind  the  first  hills  the 
clifli-like  dwellings  of  Shaston  broke  the  line  of  the  ridge. 
Nobody  was  visible  in  the  elevated  road  that  sku'ted  the 
ascent  saA^e  the  lad  whom  they  had  sent  on  before  them, 
sitting  on  the  handle  of  the  barrow  that  contained  all  Tess's 
worldly  possessions. 

^^  Bide  here  a  bit,  and  the  cart  will  soon  come,  no  doubt," 
said  Mrs.  Dm-bevfield.     "  Yes  ;  I  see  it  vonder !  " 

It  had  come,  appearing  suddenly  from  behind  the  fore- 
head of  the  nearest  upland,  and  stopping  beside  the  boy 
mth  the  barrow.  Her  mother  and  the  children  thereupon 
decided  to  go  no  farther,  and  bidding  them  a  hasty  good- 
by,  Tess  bent  her  steps  up  the  hiU. 

They  saw  her  white  shape  draw  near  to  the  spring  cart, 
on  which  her  box  was  already  placed.  But  before  she  had 
quite  reached  it,  another  vehicle  shot  out  from  a  clump 
of  trees  on  the  summit,  came  round  the  bend  of  the  road 
there,  passed  the  cart,  and  halted  beside  Tess,  who  turned 
as  if  in  great  surprise. 


54  TESS   OF   THE   D"URBERVILLES. 

Her  mother  perceived,  for  the  fii'st  time,  that  the  second 
vehicle  was  not  an  humble  conveyance  like  the  fii'st,  but 
a  spick-and-span  gig  or  dog-cart,  higlily  varnished  and 
equipped.  The  driver  was  a  young  man  of  one-  or  two-and- 
twenty,  mth  a  cigar  between  his  teeth ;  wearing  a  dandy 
cap,  drab  jacket,  breeches  of  the  same  hue,  white  neckcloth, 
stick-uj)  collar,  and  bro^svn  diiving-gloves — in  short,  he  was 
the  handsome,  horsey  young  buck  who  had  visited  her  a 
week  or  two  before  to  get  her  answer  about  Tess. 

Mrs.  Durbeyfield  clapped  her  hands  like  a  child.  Then 
she  looked  do^ra  and  stared  again.  Could  she  be  deceived 
as  to  the  meaning  of  this  f 

^'  Is  dat  the  gentleman  kinsman  who'll  make  Sissy  a 
lady  ? "  asked  the  youngest  child. 

Meanw^hile  the  muslined  form  of  Tess  could  be  seen 
standing  still,  undecided,  beside  this  turnout,  whose  owner 
was  talking  to  her.  Her  seeming  indecision  was,  in  fact, 
more  than  indecision ;  it  was  misgiving.  She  would  have 
preferred  the  humble  cart.  The  young  man  dismounted^ 
and  appeared  to  urge  her  to  ascend.  She  turned  her  face 
down  the  hill  to  her  relatives,  and  regarded  the  little  group. 
Something  seemed  to  quicken  her  to  a  determination ;  pos- 
sibly the  thought  that  she  had  killed  Prince.  She  suddenly 
stepped  up;  he  mounted  beside  her,  and  immediately 
whipped  on  the  horse.  In  a  moment  they  had  passed  the 
slow  cart  with  the  box,  and  disappeared  behind  the  shoulder 
of  the  hiU. 

Dii-ectly  Tess  was  out  of  sight,  and  the  interest  of  the 
matter  as  a  drama  was  at  an  end,  the  little  one's  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  The  youngest  child  said,  ^'I  wish  poor  Tess 
wasn't  gone  away  to  be  a  lady !  "  and,  lowering  the  corners 
of  her  lips,  burst  out  crying.  The  new  point  of  view  was 
infectious,  and  the  next  child  did  likewise,  and  then  the 
next,  till  the  whole  row  of  them  wailed  loud. 

There  were  tears  also  in  Joan  Durbeyfield's  eyes  as  she 
turned  to  go  home.     But  by  the  time  she  had  got  back  to 


THE   3L\IDEN.  55 

tlie  tillage  she  was  passively  trusting  to  the  favor  of  acci- 
dent. However,  in  bed  that  night  she  sighed,  and  her  hus- 
band asked  her  what  was  the  matter. 

"O,  I  don't  know  exactly,"  she  said.  '^I  was  thinldng 
that  perhaps  it  would  ha'  been  better  if  Tess  had  not  gone." 

"  Oughtn't  ye  to  have  thought  of  that  before  ? " 

^'  Well,  'tis  a  chance  for  the  maid —  Still,  if  'twere  the 
doing  again,  I  wouldn't  let  her  go  till  I  had  found  out 
whether  the  gentleman  is  really  a  good-hearted  young  man, 
and  interested  in  her  as  his  kinswoman." 

"Yes,  you  ought,  perhaps,  to  ha'  done  that,"  snored  Sir 
John. 

Joan  Durbeyfield  always  managed  to  find  consolation 
somewhere. 

''  Well,  as  one  of  the  genuine  stock,  she  ought  to  make 
her  way  with  en,  if  she  plays  her  trump  card  aright.  And 
if  he  don't  marry  her  afore  he  will  after.  For  that  he's  all 
afire  wi'  love  for  her  any  eye  can  see." 

"  What's  her  trump  card  ?  Her  D'Urberville  blood,  you 
mean  ? " 

"No,  stupid;  her  face — as  'twas  mine." 


VIII. 

Haying  mounted  beside  her,  Alec  D'Urberville  drove 
rapidly  along  by  the  crest  of  the  hill,  chatting  compliments 
to  Tess  as  they  went,  the  cart  mth  her  box  being  left  far 
behind.  An  immense  landscape  stretched  around  them  on 
every  side ;  behind,  the  green  valley  of  her  birth ;  before,  a 
gray  country  of  which  she  knew  nothing  except  from  her 
fii'st  brief  visit  to  Trantridge.  Thus  thej^  reached  the 
verge  of  an  incline  down  which  the  road  stretched  in  a 
long  straight  descent  of  nearly  a  mile. 


56  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Ever  since  the  accident  with  her  father's  horse,  Tess 
Durbeyfield,  courageous  as  she  naturally  was,  had  been 
exceedingly  timid  on  wheels ;  the  least  iiTcgularity  of  mo- 
tion startled  her.  She  began  to  get  uneasy  at  a  certain 
recklessness  in  her  conductors  driving. 

"You  will  go  down  slowly,  sir,  I  suppose?"  she  said, 
with  attempted  unconcern. 

D'Urberville  looked  round  upon  her,  nipped  his  cigar 
vrith  the  tips  of  his  large  white  centre-teeth,  and  allowed 
his  hps  to  sinile  slowly  of  themselves. 

"  Why,  Tess,"  he  answered,  after  another  whiff  or  two, 
''it  isn't  a  brave,  bouncing  girl  like  you  who  asks  that? 
Why,  I  alwa3^s  go  down  at  full  gallop.  There's  nothing 
hke  it  for  raising  youi*  spmts." 

"  But  perhaps  you  need  not  now?" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "there  are  two  to  be 
reckoned  with.  It  is  not  me  alone.  Tib  has  to  be  consid- 
ered, and  she  has  a  very  queer  temper." 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  this  mare.  I  fancy  she  looked  round  at  me  in  a 
verv  2Tim  wav  iust  then.     Didn't  voit  notice  it  ? " 

"  Don't  try  to  frighten  me,  sir,"  said  Tess,  stiffly. 

"Well,  I  don't.  If  any  li\Hng  man  can  manage  this 
horse  I  can — I  won't  say  any  H\ing  man  can  do  it — but  if 
such  has  the  power,  I  am  he." 

"  Why  do  you  have  such  a  horse?" 

"  Ah,  weU  may  you  ask  it !  It  was  my  fate,  I  suppose. 
Tib  has  killed  one  chap :  and  just  after  I  bought  her  she 
nearly  killed  me.  And  then,  take  my  word  for  it,  I  nearly 
killed  her.  But  she's  queer  still,  very  queer;  and  one's 
life  is  hardlv  safe  behind  her  sometimes." 

They  were  just  beginning  to  descend ;  and  it  was  e\ddent 
that  the  horse,  whether  of  her  own  will  or  of  his  (the  latter 
being  the  more  likely)  knew  so  well  the  reckless  perform- 
ance expected  of  her,  that  she  hardly  required  a  liint  from 
behind. 


THE   MAIDEN.  57 

Down,  down,  they  sped,  the  wheels  humming  Kke  a  top, 
the  dog-cart  rocking  right  and  left,  its  axis  acquiring  a 
slightly  obUque  set  in  relation  to  the  line  of  progress ;  the 
figure  of  the  horse  rising  and  falling  in  undulations  before 
them.  Sometimes  a  wheel  was  off  the  ground,  it  seemed 
for  many  yards ;  sometimes  a  stone  was  sent  spinning  over 
the  hedge,  and  flinty  sparks  from  the  horse's  hoofs  outshone 
the  daylight.  The  fore  part  of  the  straight  road  enlarged 
with  theii'  advance,  the  two  banks  dividing  like  a  splitting 
stick ;  and  one  rushed  past  at  each  shoulder. 

The  wind  blew  through  Tess's  white  muslin  to  her  very 
skin,  and  her  washed  liaii*  flew  out  behind.  She  was  deter- 
mined to  show  no  open  fear,  but  she  clutched  D'Urberville's 
rein-arm. 

"  Don't  touch  mv  arm  !  We  shall  be  thrown  out  if  you 
do  !     Hold  on  round  my  w^aist !  " 

She  grasped  his  waist,  and  so  they  reached  the  bottom. 
"  Safe,  thank  Grod,  in  spite  of  your  folly !  "  said  she,  her 
face  on  fire. 

'•  Tess— ^fie  !  that's  temper !  "  said  D'Urber\aQe. 

'"Tis  truth." 

"  Well,  3'ou  need  not  let  go  your  hold  of  me  so  thank- 
lessly the  moment  you  feel  yom'self  out  of  danger." 

She  had  not  considered  what  she  had  been  doing ;  whether 
he  were  man  or  woman,  stick  or  stone,  in  her  involuntary 
hold  on  him.  Kecovering  her  reserve,  she  sat  without 
replying,  and  thus  they  reached  the  summit  of  another 
dech\dty.     ''  Now  then,  again  !  "  said  D'Urberville. 

"No,  no,"  said  Tess.  "Show  more  sense,  do,  please, 
sir." 

"  But  when  people  find  themselves  on  the  highest  point 
in  the  county,  they  must  get  down  again,"  he  retorted.  He 
loosened  rein,  and  awav  thev  went  a  second  time.  D'Urber- 
ville  turned  his  face  to  her  as  they  rocked,  and  said,  in  play- 
ful raillery,  "Now  then,  put  your  arms  round  my  waist 
again,  as  you  did  before,  my  beauty  !  " 


58  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Never !  "  said  Tess,  independently,  holding  on  as  well 
as  she  could  without  touching  him. 

"  Let  me  put  one  little  kiss  on  those  holmberry  lips,  Tess ; 
or  even  on  that  Avarmed  cheek,  and  Pll  stop — on  my  honor, 
I  wiU!" 

Tess,  surprised  beyond  measm-e,  slid  fui^ther  back  still 
on  her  seat,  at  which  he  urged  the  horse  anew,  and  rocked 
her  the  more. 

"Will  nothing  else  do?"  she  cried  at  length,  in  despera- 
tion, her  large  eyes  staring  at  him  like  those  of  a  wild  ani- 
mal. This  dressing  her  up  so  prettily  by  her  mother  had 
apparently  been  to  lamentable  purpose. 

"  Nothing,  dear  Tess,"  he  repHed. 

"  0, 1  don't  know^ — very  well ;  I  don't  mind  !  "  she  panted, 
miserably. 

He  drew  rein,  and  as  they  slowed  he  was  on  the  point 
of  imprinting  the  desired  salute,  when,  as  if  hardly  yet 
aware  of  her  own  modesty,  she  dodged  aside.  His  arms 
being  occupied  with  the  reins,  there  was  left  him  no  power 
to  prevent  her  manoeu\Te. 

"Now,  damn  it — I'll  break  both  our  necks  !  "  swore  her 
capriciously  passionate  companion.  "  So  you  can  go  from 
your  word  like  that,  you  young  wdtch,  can  you  ? " 

"Very  well,"  said  poor  Tess,  "I'll  not  move  since  you  be 
so  determined !  But  I — thought  you  would  be  kind  to  me^ 
and  protect  me,  as  my  kinsman  !  " 

"  Kinsman  be  hanged  !     Now !  " 

"  But  I  don't  want  anybody  to  kiss  me,  sii' ! "  she  im- 
plored, a  big  tear  beginning  to  roll  down  her  face,  and  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  trembling  in  her  attempts  not  to  cry. 
"  And  I  wouldn't  ha'  come  if  I  had  known  !  " 

He  was  inexorable,  and  she  sat  still,  and  D'Urberville 
gave  her  the  kiss  of  mastery.  No  sooner  had  he  done  so 
than  she  flushed  with  shame,  took  out  her  handkerchief, 
and  wiped  the  spot  on  her  cheek  that  had  been  touched  by 


THE  MAIDEN.  59 

liis  lips.  His  ardor  was  nettled  at  the  sight,  for  the  act  on 
her  part  had  been  unconsciously  done. 

'^  You  are  mighty  sensitive  for  a  farm  girl !  "  said  the 
young  man. 

Tess  made  no  reply  to  this  remark,  of  which,  indeed,  she 
did  not  quite  comprehend  the  drift,  unheeding  the  snub  she 
had  administered  by  her  automatic  rub  upon  her  cheek. 
She  had,  in  fact,  undone  the  kiss,  as  far  as  such  a  thing 
Avas  physically  possible.  With  a  dim  sense  that  he  was 
vexed,  she  looked  steadily  ahead  as  they  trotted  on,  till  she 
saw,  to  her  consternation,  that  there  was  vet  another  descent 
to  be  undergone. 

"  You  shall  be  made  sony  for  that !  "  he  resumed,  his  in- 
jured tone  still  remaining,  as  he  flourished  the  whip  anew. 
"  Unless,  that  is,  you  agree  willingly  to  let  me  do  it  again, 
and  no  handkerchief." 

She  sighed.  "  Very  well,  sir  !  "  she  said.  "  0 — let  me 
get  my  hat !  " 

At  the  moment  of  speaking,  her  hat  had  blown  off  into 
the  road,  their  present  speed  on  the  upland  being  by  no 
means  slow.  D'UrberviUe  pulled  up,  and  said  he  would  get 
it  for  her,  but  Tess  was  down  on  the  other  side. 

She  turned  back  and  picked  up  the  article.  "  You  look 
prettier  with  it  off,  upon  my  soul,  if  that's  possible,"  he  said, 
contemplating  her  over  the  back  of  the  vehicle.  "Now 
then,  up  again  !     What's  the  matter  ? " 

The  hat  was  in  place  and  tied,  but  Tess  had  not  stepped 
forward.  "  No,  sii","  she  said,  revealing  the  red  and  ivory 
of  her  mouth  in  defiant  triumph ;  "  not  again,  if  I  know  it !  " 

"  Wliat — you  won't  get  up  beside  me  ? " 

'^  No ;  I  shaU  walk." 

''  'Tis  five  or  six  miles  yet  to  Trantridge." 

"  I  don't  care  if  'tis  dozens.     Besides,  the  cart  is  behind." 

"  You  artful  hussy  !  Now,  tell  me — didn't  you  make  that 
hat  blow  off  on  purpose  ?    I'll  swear  you  did !  " 


60  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Her  guarded  silence  confirmed  his  suspicion. 

Then  D'Urberville  cui'sed  and  swore  at  her,  and  called 
her  everything  he  could  think  of  for  the  trick.  Turning 
the  horse  suddenly,  he  tried  to  di'ive  back  upon  her,  and  so 
hem  her  in  between  the  gig  and  the  hedge.  But  he  could 
not  do  this  short  of  injui'ing  her. 

^^  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  using  such 
wicked  words ! ''  cried  Tess,  with  spirit,  from  the  top  of  the 
hedge  into  which  she  had  scrambled.  ^'  I  don't  like  you 
at  all !  I  hate  and  detest  you !  I'll  go  back  to  mother,  I 
wiU ! " 

D'Urbendlle's  bad  temper  cleared  up  at  sight  of  hers; 
and  he  laughed  heartily.  ^*  Well,  I  like  you  all  the  better," 
he  said.  '•  Come,  let  there  be  peace.  I'll  never  do  it  again 
against  youi'  will.     My  life  upon  it  noAv !  " 

Still  Tess  could  not  be  induced  to  remount.  She  did  not, 
however,  object  to  his  keeping  his  gig  alongside  her ;  and, 
in  this  manner,  at  a  slow  pace,  they  advanced  toAvards  the 
village  of  Trantridge.  From  time  to  time  D'Urberville  ex- 
hibited a  sort  of  fierce  distress  at  the  sight  of  the  tramping 
he  had  di*iven  her  to  l)v  his  misdemeanor.  She  mioiit,  in 
truth,  have  safely  trusted  him  now ;  but  he  had  forfeited 
her  confidence  for  the  time,  and  she  kept  on  the  ground, 
progressing  thoughtfully,  as  if  wondering  whether  it  would 
be  wiser  to  return  home.  Her  resolve,  however,  had  been 
taken,  and  it  seemed  vacillating  even  to  childishness  to 
abandon  it  now,  unless  for  graver  reasons.  How  could  she 
face  her  parents,  get  back  her  box,  and  disconcert  the  whole 
scheme  for  the  rehabilitation  of  her  family  on  such  senti- 
mental gi'ounds ! 

A  few  minutes  later  the  chimneys  of  The  Slopes  appeared 
in  vie'\^,  and  in  a  snug  nook  to  the  right  the  poultry-farm 
and  cottage  of  Tess's  destination. 


THE  iMAIDEN.  61 


IX. 

The  community  of  fo^ls  to  which  Tess  had  been  ap- 
pointed as  supervisor,  purveyor,  nurse,  surgeon,  and  friend 
made  theii"  headquarters  in  an  old  thatched  cottage  stand- 
ing in  an  enclosure  that  had  once  been  a  garden,  but  was 
now  a  trampled  and  sanded  square.  The  house  was  over- 
run with  ivj,  its  chimney  being  enlarged  l^y  the  boughs  of 
the  parasite  to  the  aspect  of  a  ruined  tower.  The  lower 
rooms  were  entirely  given  over  to  the  birds,  who  walked 
about  them  mtli  a  proprietary  air,  as  though  the  place  had 
been  built  by  and  for  themselves,  and  not  by  and  for  cer- 
tain dusty  copyholders  who  now  lay  east  and  west  in  the 
churchvard.  The  descendants  of  these  bverone  owners  felt 
it  almost  as  a  slif^ht  to  their  familv  when  the  house  which 
had  so  much  of  their  affection,  had  cost  so  much  of  their 
forefathers'  money,  and  had  been  in  their  possession  for 
several  generations  before  the  D'Urber^^lles  came  and  built 
here,  was  indifferentlv  turned  into  a  fowl-house  bv  Mrs. 
Stoke-D'Urberville  as  soon  as  the  property  fell  into  hand 
according  to  law.  '-  'Twas  good  enough  for  Christians  in 
grandfather's  time,''  they  said. 

The  rooms  in  which  dozens  of  infants  had  wailed  at  theii* 
nursing  now  resounded  with  the  tapping  of  nascent  chicks. 
Distracted  hens  in  coops  occupied  s];)ots  where  formerly 
stood  chairs  supporting  sedate  agriculturists.  The  chimney 
corner  and  once  blazing  hearth  was  now  filled  with  inverted 
beehives,  in  which  the  hens  laid  their  eggs ;  while  out-of- 
doors  the  plots  that  each  succeeding  householder  had  care- 
fully shaped  mth  his  spade  were  torn  by  the  cocks  in  ^^ildest 
fashion. 

The  garden  in  which  the  cottage  stood  was  suiTOunded 
by  a  wall,  and  could  only  be  entered  through  a  door. 


62  TESS   OF  THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Wlien  Tess  had  occupied  herself  about  an  hour  iu  alter- 
ing and  improving  the  arrangements,  according  to  her 
skilled  ideas  as  the  daughter  of  a  professed  poulterer,  the 
door  in  the  wall  opened  and  a  servant  in  white  cap  and 
apron  entered.     She  had  come  from  the  manor-house. 

"  Mrs.  D'Urberville  wants  the  fowls  as  usual,"  she  said ; 
but  perceivmg  that  Tess  did  not  quite  understand,  she  ex- 
plained, "  Mis'ess  is  a  old  lady,  and  blind." 

"  Blind  !  "  said  Tess. 

Almost  before  her  misgiving  at  the  news  could  find  time 
to  shape  itself,  she  took,  under  her  companion's  direction, 
two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Hamburghs  in  her  arms, 
and  followed  the  maid-servant,  who  had  likemse  taken  two, 
to  the  adjacent  mansion,  which,  though  ornate  and  impos- 
ing, showed  marks  on  this  side  which  bore  out  the  surmise 
that  some  occupant  of  its  chambers  could  bend  to  the  love 
of  dumb  creatures — feathers  floating  within  view  of  the 
front,  and  hen-coops  standing  on  the  grass. 

In  a  sitting-room  on  the  ground-floor,  ensconced  in  an 
arm-chair  with  her  back  to  the  light,  was  the  owner  and 
mistress  of  the  estate,  a  white-haired  woman  of  not  more 
than  sixty,  or  even  less,  wearing  a  large  cap.  She  had  the 
mobile  face  frequent  in  those  whose  sight  has  decayed  by 
stages,  has  been  laboriously  striven  after  and  reluctantly 
let  go,  rather  than  the  stagnant  mien  apparent  in  persons 
long  sightless  or  born  blind.  Tess  walked  up  to  this  lady 
with  her  feathered  charges — one  sitting  on  each  arm. 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  young  woman  come  to  look  after  my 
birds  ? "  said  Mrs.  D'Urberville,  recognizing  a  new  f ootstej:). 
"  I  hope  you  will  be  kind  to  them.  My  bailiff  tells  me  you 
are  quite  the  proper  person.  Well,  where  are  they  ?  Ah, 
this  is  Strut !  But  he  is  hardly  so  lively  to-day,  is  he  ?  He 
is  alarmed  at  being  handled  by  a  stranger,  I  suppose.  And 
Phena  too — yes,  they  are  a  little  frightened — aren't  you, 
dears  ?     But  they  will  soon  get  used  to  you." 

While  the  old  lady  had  been  speaking  Tess  and  the  other 


THE   :MAIDEN.  63 

maid,  in  obedience  to  her  gestures,  liad  placed  the  foAvls 
severally  in  her  lap,  and  she  had  felt  them  over  from  head 
to  tail,  examining  theu^  beaks,  their  combs,  the  manes  of 
the  cocks,  their  wings,  and  their  claws.  Her  touch  enabled 
her  to  recognize  them  in  a  moment,  and  to  discover  if  a 
single  feather  were  crippled  or  draggled.  She  handled 
theii'  crops,  and  knew  what  they  had  eaten,  and  if  too  little 
or  too  much ;  her  face  enacting  a  vivid  23antomime  of  the 
criticisms  j)assing  in  her  mind. 

The  bii'ds  that  the  two  girls  had  brought  in  were  duly 
returned  to  the  yard,  and  the  process  was  repeated  till  all 
the  pet  cocks  and  hens  had  been  submitted  to  the  old 
woman — Hamburghs,  Bantams,  Cochins,  Brahmas,  Dor- 
kings, and  such  other  sorts  as  were  in  fashion  just  then — 
her  perception  of  each  \dsitor  being  seldom  at  fault  as  she 
received  the  bird  upon  her  knees. 

It  reminded  Tess  of  a  Confirmation,  in  which  Mrs.  D'Ur- 
ber\T.lle  was  the  bishop,  the  fowls  the  young  people  pre- 
sented, and  herself  and  the  maid-servant  the  parson  and 
curate  of  the  parish  bringing  them  up.  At  the  end  of  the 
ceremony  Mrs.  D'Urber\Tlle  abruptly  asked  Tess,  wrink- 
ling and  twitching  her  face  into  undulations^  "Can  you 
whistle?" 

Whistle,  ma'am  ?  " 
Yes,  whistle  tunes.'^ 

Tess  could  whistle,  like  most  other  country  girls,  though 
the  accomplishment  was  one  which  she  did  not  care  to  pro- 
fess in  genteel  company.  However,  she  blandly  admitted 
that  such  was  the  fact. 

''  Then  you  will  have  to  practise  it  every  day.  I  had  a 
lad  who  did  it  very  wtII,  but  he  has  left.  I  want  you  to 
whistle  to  mv  bullfinches :  as  I  cannot  see  them  I  lil^e  to 
hear  them,  and  we  teach  'em  airs  that  way.  Tell  her  where 
the  cages  are,  Elizabeth.  You  must  begin  to-morrow,  or 
they  will  go  back  in  their  piping.  They  have  been  neg- 
lected these  several  days." 


a 


64  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

''  Mr.  D'Urberville  whistled  to  'em  tMs  morning,  ma'am/'' 
said  Elizabeth. 

^'  He  !     Pooh  !  " 

The  old  lady's  face  creased  into  fmTows  of  repugnance, 
and  she  made  no  further  reply. 

Thus  the  reception  of  Tess  by  her  fancied  kinswoman 
terminated,  and  the  bii'ds  were  taken  back  to  their  quarters. 
The  girl's  surprise  at  Mrs.  Stoke-D'Urberville's  manner  was 
not  great :  for  since  seeing  the  size  of  the  house  she  had 
expected  no  more.  But  she  was  far  from  being  aware  that 
the  old  lady  had  never  heard  a  word  of  the  so-called  kin- 
ship. She  gathered  that  no  great  affection  flowed  between 
the  bhnd  woman  and  her  son.  But  in  that,  too,  she  was 
mistaken.  Mrs.  D'Urber^dlle  was  not  the  fii'st  mother 
compelled  to  love  her  offs]3ring  scornfully,  and  to  aversely 
yearn. 

In  spite  of  the  unpleasant  initiation  of  the  day  before, 
Tess  inclined  to  the  freedom  and  novelty  of  her  new  posi- 
tion in  the  morning  when  the  sun  shone,  now  that  she  was 
once  installed  there  ;  and  she  was  ciu'ious  to  test  her  powers 
in  the  unexpected  direction  asked  of  her,  so  as  to  ascei-tain 
her  chance  of  retaining  her  post.  Accordingly,  so  soon  as 
she  was  alone  within  the  walled  garden,  she  sat  herseK 
down  on  a  coop,  and  seriously  screwed  uj)  her  mouth  for 
the  long-neglected  practice.  It  w^as  with  a  dismal  face  that 
she  found  her  former  ability  to  have  degenerated  to  the 
production  of  a  hollow  sepulchral  rush  of  wind  through  the 
lips,  and  no  clear  note  at  all. 

She  remained  fruitlessly  bloT\dng  and  blowing,  uttering 
impatient  expletives,  and  wondering  how  she  could  have  so 
grown  out  of  the  art  which  had  come  by  nature,  till  she  be- 
came aware  of  a  movement  among  the  i\y-boughs  which 
cloaked  the  garden  wall  no  less  than  the  cottage.  Looking 
that  way,  she  beheld  a  form  springing  from  the  coping 
to  the  plot.     It  was  Alec   D'Urber\alle,   whom   she   had 


THE   MAIDEN.  65 

not  set  eyes  on  since  be  had  conducted  her  the  day  before 
to  the  door  of  the  gardener's  cottage  where  she  had  lodg- 
ings. 

"  Upon  my  carcass !  "  cried  he,  '^  there  was  never  before 
such  a  beautiful  thing  in  Nature  or  Art  as  you  look, 
'Cousin'  Tess.  [''Cousin"  had  a  faint  ring  of  mockery.] 
I  have  been  watching  you  from  over  the  wall — sitting  like 
J/y^patience  on  a  monument,  and  pouting  up  that  pretty  red 
mouth  to  whistling  shape,  and  whooing  and  whooing,  and 
privately  swearing,  and  never  being  able  to  produce  a  note. 
Why,  you  are  quite  cross  because  you  can't  do  it." 

'^  I  am  not  cross,  and  I  didn't  swear." 

"Ah  !  I  understand  why  you  are  trying — those  bullies  ! 
My  mother  wants  you  to  carry  on  theii*  musical  education. 
How  selfish  of  her ."  As  if  attending  to  these  curst  cocks 
and  hens  here  were  not  enough  work  for  any  girl,  I  would 
flatlv  refuse,  if  I  were  vou." 

''  But  she  wants  me  particularly  to  do  it,  and  to  be  ready 
by  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Does  she  ?    Well  then — I'll  give  you  a  lesson  or  two." 

^'  Oh  no,  you  won't,"  said  Tess,  withdrawing  towards  the 
door. 

'' Nonsense;  I  don't  want  to  touch  you.  See — I'll  stand 
on  this  side  of  the  wire-netting,  and  you  can  keep  on  the 
other ;  so  you  may  feel  quite  safe.  Now,  look  here ;  you 
screw  up  your  lips  too  harshly.     There  'tis — so." 

He  sinted  the  action  to  the  word,  and  whistled  a  line  of 
''  Take,  0  take  those  lips  away."  But  the  allusion  was  lost 
upon  Tess. 

"  Now  try,"  said  D'Urberville. 

She  attempted  to  look  reserved;  her  face  put  on  its  ut- 
most phase  of  sculptural  severity.  But  how  much  could 
she  be  expected  to  accom])hsh  of  that  sort  in  such  cii'cum- 
stances  ?  He  persisted  in  his  demand,  and  at  last,  to  get 
rid  of  him,  she  did  put  up  her  lips  as  directed,  laughing 
distressfully,  however,  before  she  could  succeed  in  produc- 


66  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

ing  a  clear  note,  and  then  blushing  with  vexation  that  she 
had  laughed. 

He  encoiu'aged  her  with  '-  Try  again  ! '' 

Tess  was  quite  serious,  painfully  serious  b}^  this  time  -, 
and  she  tried — ultimately  and  unexpectedly  emitting  a  real 
round  sound.  The  momentary  pleasure  of  success  got  the 
better  of  her;  her  eyes  enlarged,  and  she  involuntarily 
smiled  in  his  face. 

"  That's  it !  Now  I  have  started  you — you'll  go  on  beau- 
tifully. There — I  said  I  would  not  come  near  you ;  and,  in 
spite  of  such  temptation  as  never  before  fell  to  mortal  man, 
I'll  keep  my  word.  I  say,  Tessie,  isn't  my  mother  a  queer 
old  soul?" 

"  I  don't  know  much  of  her  yet,  sir." 

"  You'll  find  her  so  ;  she  must  be,  to  make  you  learn  to 
whistle  to  her  bullfinches.  I  am  rather  out  of  her  books 
just  now,  but  you  Avill  be  quite  in  favor  if  you  treat  her 
live-stock  well.  Good-morning.  If  you  meet  with  any 
difficulties  and  want  help  here,  don't  go  to  the  bailiff,  come 
to  me." 

It  was  in  the  economy  of  this  regime  that  Tess  Dm-bey- 
field  had  undertaken  to  fill  a  place.  Her  fii'st  day's  expe- 
riences were  fairly  typical  of  those  which  followed  tlii'ough 
many  succeeding  days.  A  familiarity  with  Alec  D'Urber- 
ville's  presence — which  that  young  man  carefully  cultivated 
in  her  by  playful  dialogue,  and  by  jestingly  calling  her  his 
cousin  when  they  were  alone — removed  most  of  her  original 
shyness  of  him,  without,  however,  implanting  any  feeling 
which  could  engender  shyness  of  a  new  and  tenderer  kind. 
But  she  was  more  pliable  under  his  hands  than  a  mere  com- 
panionship would  have  made  her,  owing  to  her  inevitable 
dependence  upon  his  mother,  and,  through  her  comparative 
helplessness,  upon  him. 

She  soon  found  that  whistling  to  the  bullfinches  in  Mrs. 
D'Urberville's  room  was  no  such  onerous  business  when 


THE  IVIAIDEN.  67 

she  had  regained  the  art,  for  she  had  caught  from  her 
musical  mother  numerous  airs  that  suited  those  songsters 
admirably.  A  far  more  satisfactory  time  than  when  she 
practised  in  the  garden  was  this  whisthng  by  the  cages 
each  morning.  Unrestrained  by  the  young  man's  presence, 
she  threw  up  her  mouth,  put  her  lips  near  the  bars,  and 
piped  away  in  easeful  grace  to  the  attentive  listeners. 

Mrs.  D'UrberviUe  slept  in  a  large  four-post  bedstead  hung 
with  hea\'y  damask  curtains,  and  the  bullfinches  occupied 
the  same  apartment,  where  they  flitted  about  freely  at  cer- 
tain hours,  and  made  little  spots  on  the  furniture.  Once 
while  Tess  was  at  the  mndow  where  the  cages  were  ranged, 
gi\dng  her  lesson  as  usual,  she  thought  she  heard  a  rustling 
behind  the  bed.  The  old  lady  was  not  present,  and  turning 
round  the  gii'l  had  an  impression  that  the  toes  of  a  pair  of 
boots  were  visible  below  the  fringe  of  the  ciu^tains.  There- 
upon her  whistling  became  so  disjointed  that  the  listener,  if 
such  there  were,  must  have  discovered  her  suspicion  of  his 
presence.  She  searched  the  curtains  every  morning  after 
that,  but  never  found  anybody  within  them.  Alec  D'Urber- 
viUe had  e\ddently  thought  better  of  his  freak  to  temfy 
her  by  an  ambush  of  that  kind. 


X. 

E\t:ry  \'illage  has  its  idiosyncrasy,  its  constitution,  its 
own  code  of  morality.  The  levity  of  some  of  the  younger 
women  in  and  about  Trantridge  was  marked,  and  was  per- 
haps symptomatic  of  the  choice  spu-it  who  ruled  The  vSlopes 
in  that  vicinity.  The  place  had  also  a  more  abiding  defect ; 
it  drank  hard.  The  staple  conversation  on  the  farms 
around  was  on  the  uselessness  of  sa\dng  money;  and 
smockfrocked  arithmeticians,  leaning  on  their  ploughs  or 
hoes,  would  enter  into  calculations  of  great  nicety  to  prove 


68  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

that  parish  relief  was  a  fuller  provision  for  a  man  in  his 
old  age  than  any  which  could  result  from  savings  out  of 
their  wages  duiing  a  whole  lifetime. 

The  chief  pleasure  of  these  philosophers  lay  in  going 
every  Saturday  night,  when  work  was  done,  to  Chase- 
borough,  a  decayed  market-towTi  two  or  tliree  miles  dis- 
tant ;  and,  returning  in  the  small  houi's  of  the  next  morn- 
ing, to  sj)end  Sunda}"  in  sleeping  off  the  dyspeptic  effects 
of  the  curious  compounds  sold  to  them  as  beer  by  the  mo- 
nopolizers of  the  once  independent  inns. 

For  a  long  time  Tess  did  not  join  in  the  weekly  pilgrim- 
ages. But  under  pressure  from  matrons  not  much  older 
than  herself — for  marriage  before  means  was  the  rule  here 
as  elsewhere — Tess  at  length  consented  to  go.  Her  first 
experience  of  the  joui'ney  afforded  her  more  enjoyment 
than  she  had  expected,  the  hilariousness  of  the  others  be- 
ing quite  contagious  after  her  monotonous  attention  to 
the  poultry-farm  all  the  week.  She  went  again  and  again. 
Being  graceful  and  interesting,  standing  moreover  on  the 
momentary  threshold  of  womanhood,  her  appearance  drew 
down  upon  her  some  sly  regards  from  loungers  in  the  streets 
of  Chaseborough ;  hence,  though  sometimes  her  journey  to 
the  to^Ti  was  made  independently,  she  always  searched  for 
her  fellows  at  nightfall,  to  have  the  protection  of  their 
companionsliip  homeward. 

This  had  gone  on  for  a  month  or  two,  when  a  Satui-day 
came  in  early  September  on  which  a  fau*  and  a  market 
coincided ;  and  the  pilgrims  from  Trantridge  sought  double 
delights  at  the  inns  on  that  account.  It  was  long  past 
sunset,  and  Tess  waited  for  the  troop  till  she  was  quite 
wesiry.  "Wliile  she  stood  at  a  corner  by  the  tavern  in  which 
they  sat  she  heard  a  footstep,  and  looking  round  saw  the 
red  coal  of  a  cigar.  D'Urberville  was  standing  there  also. 
He  beckoned  to  her,  and  she  reluctantly  went  to  him. 

'^My  Pretty,  what  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of 
night  ? " 


THE  lilAIDEN.  69 

She  was  so  tired  after  lier  long  day  and  her  walk  that 
she  confided  her  trouble  to  him. 

"I  have  been  waiting  ever  so  long,  sii',  to  have  their 
company  home,  because  the  road  is  rather  strange  to  me  at 
night.     Bnt  I  really  think  I  will  wait  no  longer." 

''Do  not.  I  have  only  a  saddle-horse  here  to-day;  but 
come  to  the  Flower-de-Luce,  and  I'll  hire  a  trap,  and  drive 
you  home  with  me." 

Tess  had  never  quite  got  over  her  original  mistrust  of 
him,  and,  with  all  their  tardiness,  she  preferred  to  walk 
home  with  the  work-folk.  So  she  answered  that  she  was 
much  obliged  to  him  but  on  second  thoughts  would  not 
trouble  liim.  "I  have  said  that  I  will  wait  for 'em,  and 
they  will  expect  me  to  now." 

''Very  well,  silly  !     Please  yourself." 

As  soon  as  he  had  re-lit  a  cigar  and  walked  away  the 
Trantridge  villagers  within  began  also  to  recollect  how  time 
was  flpng,  and  prepared  to  leave  in  a  body.  Their  bundles 
and  baskets  were  gathered  up,  and  half  an  hour  later, 
when  the  clock-chime  sounded  a  quarter  past  eleven,  they 
were  straggling  along  the  lane  which  led  up  the  hill  towards 
their  homes. 

It  was  a  three-mile  walk,  along  a  dry  white  road,  made 
whiter  to-night  by  the  Ught  of  the  moon. 

Tess  soon  perceived  as  she  walked  in  the  flock,  some- 
times mth  this  one,  sometimes  with  that,  that  the  fresh 
night  air  was  producing  staggerings  and  serpentine  courses 
among  the  men  who  had  partaken  too  freely ;  some  of  the 
more  careless  women  also  were  wandering  in  their  gait — 
to  wit,  a  dark  \T.rago,  Car  Darch,  dubbed  Queen  of  Spades, 
till  lately  a  favorite  of  D'Urberville's ;  Nancy,  her  sister, 
nicknamed  the  Queen  of  Diamonds ;  and  a  young  married 
woman  who  had  akeady  tumbled  down.  Yet  however  ter- 
restrial and  lumpy  their  appearance  just  now  to  the  mean 
unglamoured  eye,  to  themselves  the  case  was  diiferent. 


70  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

They  followed  the  road  with  a  knowledge  that  they  were 
soaring  along  in  a  supporting  medium,  possessed  of  origi- 
nal and  profound  thoughts,  themselves  and  surrounding 
nature  forming  an  organism  of  which  all  the  parts  har- 
moniously and  joyously  interpenetrated  each  other.  They 
were  as  sublime  as  the  moon  and  stars  above  them,  and  the 
moon  and  stars  were  as  ardent  as  they. 

Tess,  however,  had  undergone  such  painful  experiences 
in  tliis  kind  in  her  father's  house  that  the  discovery  of 
their  condition  spoiled  the  pleasure  she  was  beginning  to 
feel  in  the  moonhght  journey.  Yet  she  stuck  to  the  party, 
for  reasons  above  given. 

In  the  open  highway  they  had  progressed  in  scattered 
order;  but  now  theu*  route  was  through  a  field-gate,  and 
the  foremost  finding  a  difficulty  in  opening  it,  they  closed 
up  together. 

This  leading  pedestrian  was  Car  the  Queen  of  Spades, 
who  carried  a  wicker-basket  containing  her  mother's 
gi'oceries,  her  own  draperies,  and  other  purchases  for  the 
week.  The  basket  being  large  and  heavy.  Car  had  placed 
it  for  convenience  of  porterage  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
where  it  rode  on  in  jeopardized  balance  as  she  walked  with 
arms  akimbo. 

"  Well — whatever  is  that  a-creeping  down  thy  back.  Car 
Darch  ? "  said  one  of  the  group  suddenly. 

All  looked  at  Car.  Her  gown  was  a  light  cotton  print, 
and  from  the  back  of  her  head  a  kind  of  rope  could  be 
seen  descending  to  some  distance  below  her  waist  like  a 
Chinaman's  queue. 

'^  'Tis  her  hair  falling  down,"  said  another. 

No ;  it  was  not  her  hair :  it  was  a  black  stream  of  some- 
thing oozing  from  her  basket,  and  it  glistened  like  a  slimy 
snake  in  the  cold  still  rays  of  the  moon. 

"  'Tis  treacle,"  said  an  observant  matron. 

Treacle  it  was.  Car's  poor  old  grandmother  had  a  weak- 
ness for  the  sweet  stuff.     Honey  she  had  in  plenty  out  of 


THE   MAIDEN.  71 

her  own  hives,  but  treacle  was  what  her  soul  desired,  and 
Car  had  been  about  to  give  her  a  treat  of  surprise.  Hastily 
lowering-  the  basket,  the  dark  girl  found  that  the  vessel  con- 
taining the  liquid  had  been  smashed  within. 

By  this  time  there  had  arisen  a  shout  of  laughter  at  the 
extraordinary  appearance  of  Car's  back,  which  irritated  the 
dark  queen  into  getting  rid  of  the  disfigurement  by  the  fii'st 
sudden  means  available,  and  independently  of  the  help  of 
the  scoffers.  She  rushed  excitedly  into  the  field  they  were 
about  to  cross,  and  flinging  herself  flat  on  her  back  upon 
the  grass,  began  to  wipe  her  go^vn  as  well  as  she  could  by 
gyrating  horizontally  on  the  herbage  and  dragging  herself 
over  it  upon  her  elbows. 

The  laughter  rang  louder ;  they  clung  to  the  gate,  to  the 
posts,  rested  on  then-  staves,  in  the  weakness  engendered 
by  theii'  convulsions  at  the  spectacle  of  Car.  Our  heroine, 
who  had  hitherto  held  her  peace,  at  this  wHd  moment 
could  not  help  joining  in  with  the  rest. 

It  was  a  misfortune — in  more  ways  than  one.  No  sooner 
did  the  dark  queen  hear  the  soberer,  richer  note  of  Tess 
among  those  of  the  other  work-people  than  a  long  smolder- 
ing sense  of  rivalry  inflamed  her  to  madness.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  closely  faced  the  object  of  her  dislike. 

^'  How  darest  tli'  laugh  at  me,  hussy !  "  she  cried. 

'^  I  couldn't  really  help  it  when  t'others  did,"  apologized 
Tess,  still  tittering. 

"  Ah,  th'st  think  th'  beest  everybody,  dostn't,  because  th' 
beest  fii'st  favorite  with  He  just  now !  But  stop  a  bit,  my 
lady,  stop  a  bit !  I'm  as  good  as  two  of  such !  Look  here 
— here's  at  'ee.'^ 

To  Tess's  horror  the  dark  queen  began  stripping  off  the 
bodice  of  her  gown — which  for  the  added  reason  of  its 
ridiculed  condition  she  was  only  too  glad  to  be  free  of — 
till  she  had  bared  her  plump  neck,  shoulders,  and  arms  to 
the  moonshine,  under  which  they  looked  as  luminous  and 
beautiful  as  some  Praxitelean  creation,  in  their  possession 


72  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

of  the  faultless  rotundities  of  a  lusty  country  gii-1.  She 
closed  her  fists  and  squared  up  at  Tess. 

"  Indeed,  then,  I  shall  not  fight !  "  said  the  latter,  majes- 
tically 5  "and  if  I  had  known  you  was  of  that  sort,  I 
wouldn't  have  so  let  myself  doT\Ti  as  to  come  with  such  a 
whorage  as  this  is  !  " 

The  rather  too  inclusive  speech  brought  down  a  torrent 
of  vituperation  from  other  quarters  upon  fair  Tess's  un- 
lucky head,  particularly  from  the  Queen  of  Diamonds, 
who,  having  stood  in  the  relations  to  D'Urberville  that  Car 
had  also  been  suspected  of,  united  with  the  latter  against 
the  common  enemy.  Several  other  women  also  chimed  in, 
with  an  animus  which  none  of  them  would  have  been  so 
fatuous  as  to  show  but  for  the  rollicking  evening  they  had 
passed.  Thereupon,  finding  Tess  unfairly  browbeaten,  the 
husbands  and  lovers  tried  to  make  peace  by  defending  her ; 
but  the  result  of  that  attempt  was  directly  to  increase  the 
war. 

Tess  was  indignant  and  ashamed.  She  no  longer 
minded  the  loneliness  of  the  way  and  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  j  her  one  object  was  to  get  away  from  the  whole  crew 
as  soon  as  possible.  She  knew  well  enough  that  the  better 
among  them  would  repent  of  theii*  passion  next  day.  They 
were  all  now  inside  the  field,  and  she  was  edging  about  to 
rush  off  alone  when  a  horseman  emerged  almost  silently 
from  the  corner  of  the  hedge  that  screened  the  road,  and 
Alec  D'Urberville  looked  round  upon  them. 

"  What  the  devil  is  all  tliis  row  about,  work-folk  ?  '^  he 
asked. 

The  explanation  was  not  readily  forthcoming  j  and,  in 
truth,  he  did  not  require  any.  Ha\'ing  heard  their  voices 
while  yet  some  way  off,  he  had  ridden  creepingly  forward, 
and  learned  enough  to  satisfy  himself. 

Tess  was  standing  apart  from  the  rest,  near  the  gate.  He 
bent  over  towards  her.  "  Jump  up  behind  me,"  he  whis- 
pered, "  and  we'll  get  shot  of  the  screaming  cats  in  a  jiffy  !  " 


THE  IMAIDEN.  73 

She  felt  almost  ready  to  faint,  so  vivid  was  her  sense  of 
the  crisis.  At  almost  any  other  moment  of  her  life  she 
would  have  refused  such  proffered  aid  and  company,  as  she 
had  refused  them  several  times  before ;  and  now  the  loneli- 
ness would  not  of  itself  have  forced  her  to  do  otherwise. 
But  coming  as  the  invitation  did  at  the  particular  juncture 
when  fear  and  indignation  at  these  adversaries  coidd  be 
transformed  by  a  spring  of  the  foot  into  a  triumph  over 
them,  she  abandoned  herseK  to  her  impulse,  put  her  toe 
upon  his  instep,  and  leaped  into  the  saddle  behind  liim. 
The  pair  were  speeding  away  into  the  distant  gray  by  the 
time  that  the  contentious  revellers  became  aware  of  what 
had  happened. 

The  Queen  of  Spades  forgot  the  stain  on  her  bodice,  and 
stood  beside  the  Queen  of  Diamonds  and  the  new-married, 
staggering  young  woman — all  with  a  gaze  of  fixity  in  the 
direction  in  which  the  horse's  tramp  was  diminishing  into 
silence  on  the  road. 

^'What  be  ye  looking  at?"  asked  a  man  who  had  not 
observed  the  incident. 

"  Ho-ho-ho  ! ''  laughed  dark  Car. 

'^  Hee-hee-hee ! ''  laughed  the  tippling  bride,  as  she 
steadied  herself  on  the  arm  of  her  fond  husband. 

"  Heu-heu-heu ! ''  laughed  dark  Car's  mother,  stroking 
her  mustache  as  she  explained  laconically:  '^Out  of  the 
frying-pan  into  the  fire  ! '' 

And  then  these  children  of  the  open  aii',  whom  even 
excess  of  alcohol  could  scarce  injiu'e  permanently,  betook 
themselves  to  the  field-path ;  and  as  they  went  there  moved 
onward  with  them,  around  the  shadow  of  each  one's  head, 
a  circle  of  opalized  light,  formed  by  the  moon's  rays  upon 
the  glistening  sheet  of  dew.  Each  pedestrian  could  see  no 
halo  but  his  or  her  own,  which  never  deserted  the  head- 
shadow,  whatever  its  vulgar  unsteadiness  might  be;  but 
adhered  to  it,  and  persistently  beautified  it ;  till  the  erratic 
motions  seemed  an  inherent  part  of  the  ii-radiation,  and  the 


74  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

fumes  of  their  breathing  a  component  of  the  night's  mist ; 
and  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  and  of  the  moonhght,  and  of 
Nature,  seemed  harmoniously  to  mingle  mth  the  spirit  of 
wine. 


XI. 

The  twain  cantered  along  for  some  time  without  speech, 
Tess  as  she  clung  to  him  still  panting  in  her  triumph,  yet 
in  other  respects  dubious.  She  had  perceived  that  the 
horse  was  not  the  spirited  one  he  sometimes  rode,  and  felt 
no  alarm  on  that  score,  though  her  seat  was  precarious 
enough.  She  asked  him  to  slow  the  animal  to  a  walk, 
which  Alec  accordingly  did. 

''  Neatly  done,  was  it  not,  dear  Tess  ? "  he  said  by-and-by. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  she.  "  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  much  obliged 
to  you." 

"  And  are  you  ? " 

She  did  not  reply. 

^'  Tess,  why  do  you  always  dislike  my  kissing  you  ? " 

^'  I  suppose — because  I  don't  love  you." 

"  You  are  quite  sui-e  ? " 

"  I  am  angry  with  you  sometimes !  " 

"Ah,  I  half  feared  as  much."  Nevertheless,  Alec  did 
not  object  to  that  confession.  He  knew  that  anything  was 
better  than  frigidity.  ''  Why  haven't  you  told  me  when  I 
have  made  you  angiy  ? " 

"  You  know  very  well  why.  Because  I  cannot  help  my- 
self here." 

"  I  haven't  offended  you  often  by  love-making." 

"  You  have  sometimes." 

"  How  many  times  ? " 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I — too  manv  times." 

"Every  time  I  have  tried?" 


THE  INIAIDEN.  75 

She  was  silent,  and  tlie  liorse  ambled  along  for  a  consid- 
erable distance,  till  a  faint  Inminous  fog,  wliicli  bad  Imng 
in  the  liollows  all  the  evening,  became  general  and  envel- 
oped them.  It  seemed  to  hold  the  moonlight  in  suspension, 
rendering  it  more  pervasive  than  in  clear  air.  Whether 
on  this  account,  or  from  absent-mindedness,  or  from  sleepi- 
ness, she  did  not  perceive  that  they  had  long  ago  passed 
the  point  at  which  the  lane  to  Trantridge  branched  from 
the  hio'liwav,  and  that  her  conductor  had  not  taken  the 
Trantridge  track. 

She  was  inexpressibly  weary.  She  had  risen  at  five 
o'clock  every  morning  of  that  week,  had  been  on  foot  the 
whole  of  each  day,  and  on  this  evening  had  in  addition 
walked  the  tlu*ee  miles  to  Chaseborough,  waited  three  hours 
for  her  neighbors  without  eating  or  drinking,  her  impatience 
to  start  them  preventing  either;  she  had  then  walked  a 
mile  of  the  way  home,  and  had  undergone  the  excitement 
of  the  quarrel,  till  it  was  now  nearly  one  o'clock.  Only 
once,  however,  was  she  overcome  by  actual  di'owsiness.  In 
that  moment  of  oblivion  she  sank  gently  against  him. 

D'Urberville  withdrew  his  feet  from  the  stirrups,  tiu'ned 
sideways  on  the  saddle,  and  enclosed  her  waist  with  his 
arm  to  support  her. 

This  immediately  put  her  on  the  defensive,  and  with  one 
of  those  sudden  impulses  of  reprisal  to  which  she  was  liable 
she  gave  him  a  little  push  from  her.  In  his  ticklish  position 
he  nearly  lost  his  balance  and  only  just  avoided  rolling 
over  into  the  road,  the  horse,  though  a  powerf id  one^  being 
fortunately  the  quietest  he  rode. 

''  That  is  devihsh  unkind  !  "  he  said.  '^  I  mean  no  harm 
— only  to  keep  you  from  falling." 

She  pondered  suspiciously ;  till,  thinking  that  this  might 
after  all  be  true,  she  relented,  and  said  quite  humbly,  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"I  won't  pardon  you  unless  you  show  some  confidence 
in  me.     Good  God !  "  he  bui^st  out,  ''  what  am  I,  to  be  re- 


76  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

pulsed  SO  by  a  mere  ckLt  like  you  ?  For  near  three  mortal 
m.onths  have  you  trifled  with  my  feelings,  eluded  me,  and 
snubbed  me ;  and  I  won't  stand  it !  " 

^'  I'll  leave  you  to-morrow,  sii\" 

"  No,  you  will  not  leave  me  to-morrow !  Will  you,  I  ask 
once  more,  show  yom^  belief  in  me  by  letting  me  encircle 
you  with  my  arm?  Come,  between  us  two  and  nobody 
else,  now.  We  know  each  other  well ;  and  you  know  that 
I  love  you,  and  think  you  are  the  prettiest  giii  in  the 
world,  wliich  you  are.     May  I  treat  you  as  a  lover  ? " 

She  drew  a  quick  pettish  breath  of  objection,  T\Tithing 
uneasily  on  her  seat,  looked  far  ahead,  and  murmured,  "  I 
don't  know — I  wish — how  can  I  say  yes  or  no  when " 

He  settled  the  matter  by  clapping  his  arm  round  her  as 
he  desu^ed,  and  Tess  expressed  no  further  negative.  Thus 
they  sidled  onward  till  it  struck  her  they  had  been  advanc- 
ing for  an  unconscionable  time — far  longer  than  was 
usually  occupied  by  the  short  journey  from  Chaseborough, 
even  at  this  walking  pace,  and  that  they  were  no  longer  on 
hard  road,  but  in  a  mere  trackway. 

"  AVhy,  where  be  we  ? "  she  exclaimed. 

^'  Passing  by  a  wood." 

^'A  w^ood — what  wood?  Surely  we  are  quite  out  of  the 
road  f " 

^'A  bit  of  The  Chase — the  oldest  wood  in  England.  It 
is  a  lovely  night,  and  why  should  we  not  prolong  our  ride 
a  little  ?  " 

"  How  could  you  be  so  treacherous  !  "  said  Tess,  between 
archness  and  real  dismay,  and  getting  rid  of  his  arm  by 
pulling  open  his  fingers  one  by  one,  though  at  the  risk  of 
slipping  off  herself.  "Just  when  I've  been  putting  such 
trust  in  you,  and  obhging  you  to  please  you,  because  I 
thought  I  had  wronged  you  by  that  push !  Please  set  me 
down,  and  let  me  walk  home." 

"You  cannot  walk  home,  even  if  the  air  were  clear. 
We  are  miles  away  from  Trantridge,  if  I  must  teU  you,  and 


THE   MAIDEN.  77 

in  this  growing  fog  you  might  wander  for  hours  among 
these  trees." 

"  Never  mind  that/'  she  coaxed.  '•  Put  me  down,  I  beg 
5'ou.  I  don't  mind  where  it  is ;  only  let  me  get  down,  sir, 
please ! " 

''Very  well,  then,  I  will — on  one  condition.  Having 
brought  you  here  to  this  out-of-the-way  place,  I  feel  myself 
responsible  for  your  safe  conduct  home,  whatever  you  may 
yourself  feel  about  it.  As  to  your  getting  to  Trantridge 
without  assistance,  it  is  quite  impossible ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  o\mig  to  this  fog,  which  so  disguises  everj^thing,  I 
don't  quite  know  where  we  are  myseK.  Now,  if  you  will 
promise  to  wait  beside  the  horse  while  I  walk  through  the 
bushes  till  I  come  to  some  road  or  house  and  ascertain 
exactly  our  whereabouts,  I'll  deposit  you  here  willingly. 
Wlien  I  come  back  I'll  give  you  full  directions,  and  if  you 
insist  upon  walking  you  ma}^ ;  or  you  may  ride — at  your 
pleasui^e." 

She  accepted  these  terms,  and  sKd  off  on  the  near  side, 
though  not  till  he  had  stolen  a  cursory  kiss.  He  sprang 
down  on  the  other  side. 

"I  suppose  I  must  hold  the  horse?"  said  she. 

"  Oh  no ;  it's  not  necessary,"  replied  Alec,  patting  the 
panting  creature.     "  He's  had  enough  of  it  for  to-night." 

He  turned  the  horse's  head  into  the  bushes,  hitched  him 
on  to  a  bough,  and  made  a  sort  of  couch  or  nest  for  her  in 
the  deep  mass  of  dead  leaves. 

"  Now,  you  sit  there,"  he  said.  "  That  ^yi]l  keep  away 
the  damp.  Just  give  an  eye  to  the  horse — it  will  be  quite 
sufficient." 

He  took  a  few  steps  away  from  her,  but,  returning, 
said,  "  By  the  by,  Tess,  your  father  has  a  new  cob  to-day. 
Somebody  gave  it  to  him." 

"  Somebody  f     You  !  " 

D'Urberville  nodded. 

"  Oh,  how  very  good  of  you  that  is ! "    she  exclaimed, 


78  TESS  OF   THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

with  a  painful  sense  of  the  awkwardness  of  having  to  thank 
him  just  then. 

"  And  the  children  have  some  toys." 

"  I  didn't  know — you  ever  sent  them  anything !  "  she 
murmui'ed,  much  moved.  ^'  I  almost  wish  you  had  not — 
yes,  I  almost  Tvish  it !  " 

''  Why,  dear  ? '' 

"  It — champers  me  so." 

"  Tessie — don't  you  love  me  ever  so  little  now  ? " 

^'  I'm  grateful,"  she  reluctantly  admitted.     ^'  But  I  fear  I 

do  not "     The  sudden  vision  of  his  passion  for  herself 

as  a  factor  in  this  result  so  distressed  her  that,  beginning 
mth  one  slow  tear,  and  then  following  with  another,  she 
wept  outright. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear,  dear  one !  Now  sit  down  here,  and 
wait  till  I  come."  She  passively  sat  down  amid  the  leaves 
that  he  had  heaped,  and  shivered  slightly.  "Are  you 
cold  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Not  very — a  little." 

He  touched  her  with  his  fingers,  which  sank  into  her  as 
into  a  billow.  "  You  have  only  that  puffy  muslin  dress  on 
—how's  that?" 

"It's  my  best  summer  one.  'Twas  very  warm  when  I 
started,  and  I  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  ride,  and  that  it 
would  be  night." 

"Nights  grow  chiU}^  in  September.  Let  me  see."  He 
pulled  off  a  light  overcoat  that  he  had  worn,  and  put  it 
round  her  tenderly.  "That's  it — now  you  feel  w^armer," 
he  continued.  "  Now,  my  Pretty,  rest  there ;  I  shall  soon 
be  back  again." 

Having  buttoned  the  overcoat  round  her  shoulders,  he 
plunged  into  the  webs  of  vapor  Avhich  by  this  time  formed 
veils  between  the  trees.  She  could  hear  the  rustling  of  the 
branches  as  he  ascended  the  adjoining  slope,  till  his  move- 
ments were  no  louder  than  the  hopping  of  a  bird,  and 
finally  died  away.     With  the  setting  of  the  moon  the  pale 


THE   INIAIDEN.  79 

light  lessened,  and  Tess  became  invisil3le  as  she  fell  into 
reverie  upon  the  leaves  where  he  had  left  her. 

In  the  meantime  Alec  D'Urber\dlle  had  pushed  on  np 
the  slope  to  clear  his  genuine  doubt  as  to  the  quarter  of 
The  Chase  they  were  in.  He  had,  in  fact,  ridden  quite  at 
random  for  over  an  houi',  taking  any  turning  that  came  to 
hand  in  order  to  prolong  companionship  with  her,  and  giv- 
ing far  more  attention  to  Tess's  moonlit  person  than  to  any 
wayside  object.  A  little  rest  for  the  jaded  animal  being 
desirable,  he  did  not  hasten  his  search  for  landmarks.  A 
clamber  over  the  hill  into  the  adjoining  vale  brought  him 
to  the  fence  of  a  highway  whose  aspect  he  recognized, 
which  settled  the  question  of  their  whereabouts.  D'Ur- 
berville  thereupon  turned  back  j  but  by  this  time  the  moon 
had  quite  gone  down,  and  partly  on  account  of  the  fog 
The  Chase  was  wrapped  in  thick  darkness,  although  morn- 
ing was  not  far  off.  He  was  obliged  to  advance  with 
outstretched  hands  to  avoid  contact  with  the  boughs,  and 
discovered  that  to  hit  the  exact  spot  from  which  he  had 
started  was  at  first  entirely  beyond  him.  Roaming  up  and 
down,  round  and  round,  he  at  length  heard  a  slight  move- 
ment of  the  horse  close  at  hand;  and  the  sleeve  of  his 
overcoat  unexpectedly  caught  his  foot. 

''  Tess  ! ''  said  D'Urberville. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  obscurity  was  now  so  great 
that  he  could  see  absolutely  nothing  but  a  pale  nebulous- 
ness  at  his  feet,  which  represented  the  white  musUn  figure 
he  had  left  upon  the  dead  leaves.  Everything  else  was 
blackness  alike.  D'Urberville  stooped,  and  heard  a  gentle 
regular  breathing.  He  knelt  and  bent  lower,  till  her  breath 
warmed  his  face,  and  in  a  moment  his  cheek  was  in  con- 
tact mth  hers.  She  was  sleeping  soundly,  and  upon  her 
eyelashes  there  lingered  tears. 

Darkness  and  silence  ruled  everywhere  around.  Above 
them  rose  the  primeval  yews  and  oaks  of  The  Chase,  in 
which  were  poised  gentle  roosting  birds  in  their  last  nap ; 


80  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

and  around  tliem  the  hopping  rabbits  and  liares.  But 
where  was  Tess's  guardian  angel?  where  was  the  Provi- 
dence of  her  simple  faith  ?  Perhaps,  like  that  other  god 
of  whom  the  ironical  Tishbite  spoke,  he  was  talking,  or  he 
was  pursuing,  or  he  was  in  a  joiu^ney,  or  peradventure  he 
was  sleeping  and  was  not  to  be  awaked. 

Why  it  was  that  upon  this  beautiful  feminine  tissue, 
sensitive  as  gossamer,  and  practically  blank  as  snow  as  yet, 
there  should  have  been  traced  such  a  coarse  pattern  as  it 
was  doomed  to  receive;  why  so  often  the  coarse  appro- 
priates the  finer  thus,  many  thousand  3'ears  of  anal}i:ieal 
philosojDhy  have  failed  to  explain  to  om^  sense  of  order. 
One  may,  indeed,  admit  the  possibility  of  a  retribution 
liu'king  in  the  catastrophe.  Doubtless  some  of  Tess  D'Ur- 
berville's  mailed  ancestors  rollicking  home  from  a  fray  had 
dealt  the  same  ^Tong  even  more  ruthlessty  upon  peasant 
girls  of  their  time.  But  though  to  \nsit  the  sins  of  the 
fathers  upon  the  children  may  be  a  morahty  good  enough 
for  di^dnities,  it  is  scorned  by  average  human  nature ;  and 
it  therefore  does  not  mend  the  matter. 

As  Tess's  own  people  down  in  those  retreats  are  never 
tired  of  sapng  among  each  other  in  their  fatalistic  way : 
"  It  was  to  be."  There  lay  the  pity  of  it.  An  immeasura- 
ble social  chasm  was.  to  divide  our  heroine's  personality 
thereafter  from  that  pre^dous  self  of  hers  who  stepj^ed  from 
her  mother's  door  to  try  her  fortune  at  Trantridge  poultry- 
farm. 


MAIDEN  NO   MORE. 


XII. 

The  basket  was  heavy  and  the  bundle  was  large,  but  she 
lugged  them  along  like  a  person  w^ho  did  not  find  any  espe- 
cial biu'den  in  material  things.  Occasionally  she  stopped 
to  rest  in  a  mechanical  way  by  some  gate  or  post;  and 
then,  giving  the  baggage  another  hitch  npon  her  full  round 
arm,  went  steadily  on  again. 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  late  October,  about  four 
months  after  Tess  Durbejiield's  arrival  at  Trantridge,  and 
some  few  weeks  subsequent  to  the  night  ride  in  The  Chase. 
The  time  was  not  long  past  daybreak,  and  the  yellow  lumi- 
nosity upon  the  horizon  behind  her  back  lighted  the  ridge 
towards  which  her  face  was  set — the  barrier  of  the  vale 
wherein  she  had  of  late  been  a  stranger — which  she  would 
have  to  climb  over  to  reach  her  birthplace.  The  ascent 
was  gi^adual  on  this  side,  and  the  soil  and  scenery  differed 
much  fi'om  those  within  Blakemore  Yale.  Even  the  char- 
acter and  accent  of  the  two  peoples  had  shades  of  difference, 
despite  the  amalgamating  effects  of  a  roundabout  railway ; 
so  that,  though  less  than  twenty  miles  from  the  place  of 
her  sojourn  at  Trantridge,  her  native  village  had  seemed  a 
far-away  spot.  The  field-folk  shut  in  there  traded  north- 
ward and  westward,  travelled,  courted,  and  married  north- . 
ward  and  westward,  thought  northward  and  westward; 
0 


82  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

those  on  this  side  mainly  directed  their  energies  and  at- 
tention to  the  east  and  sonth. 

The  incline  was  the  same  down  which  D'Urberville  had 
diiveu  with  her  so  ^^dldl}^  on  that  day  in  Jnne.  Tess  went 
up  the  remainder  of  its  length  without  stopping,  and  on 
reaching  the  edge  of  the  escarpment  gazed  over  the  familiar 
gi'een  world  beyond,  now  half  veiled  in  mist.  It  was  al- 
ways beautiful  from  here ;  it  was  terribly  beautiful  to  Tess 
to-day,  for  since  her  eyes  last  fell  upon  it  she  had  learned 
that  the  serpent  hisses  where  sweet  bii'ds  sing,  and  her 
views  of  life  had  been  totally  changed  for  her  by  the  lesson. 
Verily  another  girl  than  the  simple  one  she  had  been  at 
home  was  she  who,  bowed  by  the  thought,  stood  still  here, 
and  turned  to  look  behind  her.  She  could  not  bear  to  look 
forward  into  the  Vale. 

Ascending  by  the  long  white  road  that  Tess  hers^ 
had  just  labored  up  she  saw  a  two-wheeled  vehicle,  beside 
wiiich  walked  a  man,  who  held  up  his  hand  to  attract  her 
attention. 

She  obeyed  the  signal  to  wait  for  liim  with  unspeculative 
repose,  and  in  a  few  minutes  man  and  horse  stopped  beside 
her. 

^'Why  did  you  slip  away  by  stealth  like  this?"  said 
D'Urberville,  mth  upbraiding  breathlessness  5  '^  on  a  Sun- 
day morning,  too,  when  people  were  all  in  bed !  I  only 
discovered  it  by  accident,  and  I  have  been  dri\dng  like  the 
deuce  to  overtake  you.  Just  look  at  the  mare.  Why  go 
off  like  this?  You  know  that  nobody  wished  to  hinder 
your  going.  And  how  unnecessary  it  has  been  for  you  to 
toil  along  on  foot,  and  encumber  yourself  with  this  heavy 
load !  I  have  followed  like  a  madnian,  simply  to  drive  you 
the  rest  of  the  distance,  if  vou  won't  come  back." 

^'  I  shan't  come  back,"  said  she. 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't — I  said  so.  Wei],  then,  put  up 
your  baskets,  and  let  me  help  you  on." 

She  listlessly  placed  her  basket  and  bundle  within  the 


MAIDEX  NO  MORE.  83 

dog-cart,  and  stepped  up,  and  they  sat  side  by  side.  She 
had  no  fear  of  him  now,  and  in  the  cause  of  her  confidence 
her  sorrow  lay. 

D'Urberville  mechanically  lit  a  cigar,  and  the  journey 
was  continued  with  broken  unemotional  conversation  on 
the  commonplace  objects  by  the  wayside.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  his  struggle  to  kiss  her  when,  in  the  early  sum- 
mer, they  had  driven  in  the  opposite  direction  along  the 
same  road.  But  she  had  not,  and  she  sat  now  like  a  puppet, 
replying  to  his  remarks  in  monosyllables.  After  a  space 
they  came  in  view  of  the  clump  of  trees  beyond  which  the 
village  of  Marlott  stood.  It  was  only  then  that  her  face 
still  showed  the  least  emotion,  a  tear  or  two  beginning  to 
trickle  do^Ti. 

'^  What  are  you  crying  for?"  he  coldly  asked. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  that  I  was  born  over  there,"  mur- 
mured Tess. 

"'  Well — w^e  must  all  be  born  somewhere." 

^'I  wish  I  had  never  been  born — there  or  anj^where 
else ! " 

^'  Pooh !  Well,  if  you  didn't  wish  to  come  to  Trantridge 
why  did  you  come  ? " 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  You  didn't  come  for  love  of  me,  that  I'll  swear." 

^'  'Tis  quite  true.  If  I  had  gone  for  love  o'  you,  if  I  had 
ever  sincerely  loved  'ee,  if  I  loved  you  still,  I  should  not  so 
loathe  and  hate  myself  for  my  weakness  as  I  do  now !  .  .  . 
My  eyes  were  dazed  by  you  for  a  little,  and  that  was  aU." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.     She  resumed : 

"I  didn't  understand  your  meaning  till  it  was  too 
late." 

'^  That's  what  every  woman  says." 

"  How  can  you  dare  to  use  such  words  !  "  she  cried,  turn- 
ing impetuously  upon  him,  her  eyes  flashing  as  the  latent 
spirit  (of  which  he  was  to  see  more  some  day)  awoke  in 
her.     ^^  My  God !  I  could  knock  you  out  of  the  gig !     Did 


84  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

it  never  strike  your  mind  that  what  every  woman  says 
some  women  may  feel  ? " 

^'Very  well/'  he  said,  laughing;  "I  am  sorry  to  wound 
you.  I  did  wrong — I  admit  it."  He  dropped  into  some 
little  bitterness  as  he  continued :  "  Only  you  needn't  be  so 
everlastingly  flinging  it  in  my  face.  I  am  ready  to  pay  to 
the  uttermost  farthing.  You  know  you  need  not  work  in 
the  fields  or  the  dairies  again.  You  know  you  may  clothe 
yourself  mth  the  best,  instead  of  in  the  bald  plain  way  you 
have  lately  affected,  as  if  you  couldn't  get  a  ribbon  more 
than  vou  earn." 

Her  lip  lifted  slightly,  though  there  was  little  scorn,  as  a 
rule,  in  her  large  and  impulsive  nature. 

''I  have  said  I  ^yi]l  not  take  an^i:liine'  more  from  vou, 
and  I  will  not — I  cannot !  I  slio'uM  be  your  creature  to  go 
on  doing  that,  and  I  won't !  " 

"  One  would  think  you  were  a  princess  from  your  man- 
ner, in  addition  to  a  true  and  original  D'Urberville — ha !  ha ! 
Well,  Tess,  dear,  I  can  say  no  more.  I  suppose  I  am  a  bad 
fellow — a  damn  bad  fellow.  I  was  born  bad,  and  I  have 
lived  bad,  and  I  shall  die  bad  in  all  probabihty.  But,  upon 
my  lost  soul,  I  won't  be  bad  towards  you  again,  Tess.  And 
if  certain  circumstances  should  arise — vou  understand — in 
which  5^ou  are  in  the  least  need,  the  least  difficulty,  send 
me  one  line,  and  vou  shall  have  bv  return  whatever  vou 
require.  I  may  not  be  at  Trantridge — I  am  going  to  Lon- 
don for  a  time — I  can't  stand  the  old  woman.  But  all 
letters  i^oll  be  forwarded." 

She  said  that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  drive  her  farther, 
and  they  stopped  just  under  the  clump  of  trees.  D'Url^er- 
ville  alighted,  and  lifted  her  down  bodily  in  his  arms,  after- 
wards placing  her  articles  on  the  ground  beside  her.  She 
bowed  to  him  slightly,  her  eye  just  lingering  in  his ;  and 
then  she  turned  to  take  the  parcels  for  departure. 

Alec  D'Urberville  removed  his  cigar,  bent  towards  her, 
and  said : 


MAIDEN  NO  MORE.  85 

^'You  are  not  going  to  tm-n  away  like  tliat,  dear? 
Come ! " 

^'If  you  wish,"  she  answered,  indifferently.  "See  how 
you've  mastered  me  !  " 

She  thereupon  turned  round  and  lifted  her  face  to  his, 
and  remained  like  a  marble  term  while  he  imprinted  a  kiss 
upon  her  cheek — half  perfunctorily,  liaK  as  if  zest  had  not 
yet  quite  died  out.  Her  eyes  vaguely  rested  upon  the  re- 
motest trees  in  the  lane  w^hile  the  kiss  was  given,  as  though 
she  were  nearly  unconscious  of  what  he  did. 

"  Now  the  other  side,  for  old  acquaintance'  sake.'' 

She  tm-ned  her  head  in  the  same  passive  way,  as  one 
might  turn  at  the  request  of  a  sketcher  or  hairdresser,  and 
he  kissed  the  other  side,  liis  Hps  touching  cheeks  that  were 
damp  and  smoothly  chill  as  the  skin  of  the  mushrooms 
growing  around  them. 

"  You  don't  give  me  youi'  mouth  and  kiss  me  back.  You 
never  willingly  do  that — you'll  never  love  me,  I  fear." 

"  I  have  said  so,  often.  It  is  true.  I  have  never  really 
and  truly  loved  you,  and  I  think  I  never  can."  She  added 
moui-nfully,  ^'  Perhaps,  of  all  things,  a  lie  on  this  thing 
would  do  the  most  good  to  me  now  5  but  I  have  honor 
enough  left,  little  as  'tis,  not  to  tell  that  lie.  If  I  did  love 
you  I  may  have  the  best  o'  causes  for  letting  you  know  it. 
But  I  don't." 

He  emitted  a  labored  breath,  as  if  the  scene  were  getting 
rather  oppressive  to  his  heart,  or  to  his  conscience,  or  to 
his  gentility. 

"Well,  you  *e  absurdly  melancholy,  Tess.  I  have  no 
reason  for  flattering  you  now,  and  I  can  say  plainly  that 
you  need  not  be  so  sad.  You  can  hold  your  own  for 
beauty  against  any  woman  of  these  pai'ts,  gentle  or  simple  ; 
I  say  it  to  you  as  a  practical  man  and  well-msher.  If  you 
are  wise  you  will  show  it  to  the  world  more  than  you  do 
before  it  fades.  .  .  .  And  yet,  Tess,  will  you  come  back  to 
me  ?     Upon  my  soul  I  don't  like  to  let  you  go  like  this !  " 


86  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^^  Never,  never !  I  made  up  my  mind  as  soon  as  I  saw — 
what  I  ought  to  have  seen  sooner ;  and  I  won't  come." 

''Then  good-morning,  my  fom-  months'  cousin — good- 
by!'^ 

He  leapt  up  hghtly,  arranged  the  reins,  and  was  gone 
between  the  tall  red-berried  hedges. 

Tess  did  not  look  after  him,  but  slowly  wound  along  the 
crooked  lane.  It  was  stiU  early,  and  though  the  sun's  lower 
limb  was  just  free  of  the  hill,  his  rays,  ungenial  and  peer- 
ing, addressed  the  eye  rather  than  the  touch  as  yet.  There 
was  not  a  human  soul  near.  Sad  October  and  her  sadder 
seK  seemed  the  only  two  existences  haunting  that  lane. 

As  she  walked,  however,  some  footsteps  approached  be- 
hind her,  the  footsteps  of  a  man ;  and  owing  to  the  brisk- 
ness of  his  advance  he  was  close  at  her  heels  and  had  said 
"  Good-morning "  before  she  had  been  long  aware  of  his 
propinquity.  He  appeared  to  be  an  artisan  of  some  sort, 
and  carried  a  tin  j)ot  of  red  paint  in  his  hand.  He  asked 
in  a  business-like  manner  if  he  should  take  her  basket, 
wliich  she  permitted  him  to  do,  walking  beside  him. 

^'It  is  early  to  be  astir  this  Sabbath  morn,"  he  said, 
cheerfully. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tess. 

^'  When  most  people  are  at  rest  from  theii'  week's  work." 

She  also  assented  to  this. 

*'  Though  I  do  more  real  work  to-day  than  all  the  week 
besides." 

<^  Do  you  ? " 

'^  All  the  week  I  work  for  the  glory  of  m^n,  and  on  Sun- 
day for  the  glory  of  God.  That's  more  real  than  the  other 
— hey !  I  have  a  little  to  do  here  at  this  stile."  The  man 
turned  as  he  spoke  to  an  opening  at  the  roadside  leading 
into  a  pasture.  "  If  you'll  wait  a  moment,"  he  added,  ^'  I 
shall  not  be  long." 

As  he  had  her  basket  she  could  not  weU  do  otherwise ; 
and  she  waited,  observing  him.     He  set  down  her  basket 


MAIDEN   NO   MORE.  87 

and  the  tin  pot,  and  stirring  the  paint  with  the  brush  that 
was  in  it  began  painting  large  square  letters  on  the  middle 
board  of  the  three  composing  the  stile,  placing  a  comma 
between  each  word,  as  if  to  give  pause  wliile  that  word  was 
driven  well  home  to  the  reader's  heart — 

THY,  DAMNATION,  SLUMBERETH,  NOT. 

2  Pet.  ii.  3. 

Against  the  peaceful  landscape,  the  pale,  decaying  tints 
of  the  copses,  the  blue  air  of  the  horizon,  and  the  lichen ed 
stile  boards,  these  staring  vermilion  words  shone  forth. 
They  seemed  to  shout  themselves  out  and  make  the  atmos- 
phere ring.  Some  people  might  have  cried,  "Alas,  poor 
Theology !  '^  at  the  hideous  defacement — the  last  grotesque 
phase  of  a  creed  which  had  served  mankind  well  in  its 
time.  But  the  words  entered  Tess  with  accusatory  horror. 
It  was  as  if  tliis  man  had  known  her  recent  history ;  yet  he 
was  a  total  stranger. 

Having  finished  his  text  he  picked  up  her  basket,  and 
she  mechanically  resumed  her  walk  beside  him. 

''Do  you  believe  what  you  paint?"  she  asked  in  low 
tones. 

''  Believe  that  tex  ?    Do  I  beUeve  in  my  own  existence  !  " 

"  But,''  said  she,  tremulously,  "  suppose  your  sin  was  not 
of  your  own  seeking  ? '' 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  cannot  split  hairs  on  that  burning  query,''  he  said, 
"  I  have  walked  hundi'eds  of  miles  during  this  past  sum- 
mer, painting  these  texes  on  every  wall,  gate,  and  stile  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  this  district.  I  leave  their 
application  to  the  hearts  of  the  people  who  read  'em." 

"  I  think  they  are  horrible,"  said  Tess.  ''  Crusliing ! 
killing !  " 

"  That's  what  they  are  meant  to  be ! "  he  replied,  in  a 
trade  voice.     ''  But  you  should  read  my  hottest  ones — them 


88  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBER^TLLES. 

I  kips  for  slums  and  seaports.  They'd  make  ye  wriggle ! 
Not  but  what  this  is  a  very  good  tex  for  the  riu-al  districts. 
.  .  .  Ah — there's  a  nice  bit  of  blank  wall  up  by  that  barn 
standing  to  waste.  I  must  put  one  there — one  that  will  be 
good  for  dangerous  young  females  like  yourself  to  heed. 
Will  you  wait,  missy  ? " 

''  No/'  said  she ;  and  taking  her  basket  Tess  trudged  on. 
A  little  way  forward  she  turned  her  head.  The  old  gray 
wall  began  to  advertise  a  similar  fiery  lettering  to  the  first, 
with  a  strange  and  unwonted  mien,  as  if  distressed  at  duties 
it  had  never  before  been  called  upon  to  perform.  It  was 
with  a  sudden  flash  that  she  read  and  realized  what  was  to 
be  the  inscription  he  was  now  half-way  tlii'ough — 

THOU,  SHALT,  NOT,  COMMIT 


Her  cheerful  friend  saw  her  looking,  stopped  his  brush, 
and  shouted : 

''  If  you  want  to  ask  anything  of  the  sort  we  was  talking 
about,  there's  a  very  earnest  good  man  going  to  preach  a 
charity-sermon  to-day  in  the  parish  you  are  going  to — Mr. 
Clare,  of  Emminster.  I'm  not  of  his  persuasion  now,  but 
he  is  a  good  man,  and  he'll  explain  as  weU  as  any  parson  I 
know.     'Twas  he  began  the  work  in  me." 

But  Tess  did  not  answer ;  she  throbbingly  resumed  her 
walk,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  '^  Pooh — I  don't  be- 
lieve God  said  such  things ! "  she  murmured  contemptu- 
ously when  her  flush  had  died  away. 

A  plume  of  smoke  soared  up  suddenly  from  her  father's 
chimnev,  the  sij2fht  of  which  made  her  heart  ache.  The 
aspect  of  the  interior,  when  she  reached  it,  made  her  heart 
ache  more.  Her  mother,  who  had  just  come  do\\Tistairs, 
turned  to  greet  her  from  the  fireplace,  where  she  was  Idnd- 
ling  barked-oak  twigs  under  the  breakfast  kettle.  The 
young  children  were  still  above,  as  was  also  her  father,  it 
being  Sunday  morning,  when  he  felt  justified  in  l}ing  an 
additional  half -hour. 


MAIDEN  NO   MORE.  89 

'^  Well ! — my  dear  Tess  ! "  exclaimed  her  sm^rised  mother, 
jumping  up  and  kissing  the  girl.  '■^  How  be  ye  ?  I  didn't 
see  you  till  you  was  in  upon  me  !  Have  you  come  home  to 
be  married  f " 

'^  No,  I  have  not  come  for  that,  mother.'^ 

"  Then  for  a  holiday  ?  " 

'•'•  Yes — for  a  holiday ;  for  a  long  holiday/'  said  Tess. 

'^What,  isn't  your  cousin  going  to  do  the  handsome 
thing  f " 

^^  He's  not  my  cousin,  and  he's  not  going  to  marry  me." 

Her  mother  ej^ed  her  narrowly. 

''  Come,  you  have  not  told  me  all,"  she  said. 

Then  Tess  went  up  to  her  mother,  put  her  face  upon 
Joan's  neck,  and  told. 

'^  And  yet  th'st  not  got  him  to  marry  'ee  !  "  reiterated  her 
mother.     ''  Any  woman  would  have  done  it  but  you  !  " 

"Perhaps  any  woman  would  except  me." 

"  It  would  have  been  something  like  a  stoiy  to  come  back 
with,  if  you  had ! "  continued  Mrs.  Durbeyfield,  ready  to 
burst  into  tears  of  vexation.  "  After  all  the  talk  about  you 
and  him  which  has  reached  us  here,  who  would  have  ex- 
pected it  to  end  like  this  !  Why  didn't  ye  think  of  doing 
some  good  for  j^our  family  instead  o'  thinking  only  of  your- 
self ?  See  how  I've  got  to  teave  and  slave,  and  your  poor 
weak  father  with  his  heart  clogged  like  a  dripping-pan.  I 
did  hope  for  something  to  come  out  o'  this  !  To  see  what 
a  pretty  pair  you  and  he  made  that  day  when  you  di'ove 
away  together  fom'  months  ago  !  See  what  he  has  given 
us — aU,  as  we  thought,  because  we  were  his  kin.  But  if 
he's  not,  it  must  have  been  done  because  of  his  love  for  'ee. 
And  yet  you've  not  got  him  to  marry !  " 

Get  Alec  D'Urberville  in  the  mind  to  marrv  her !  He 
marry  lier !  On  matrimony  he  had  never  once  said  a  word. 
And  what  if  he  had?  How  she  might  have  been  impelled 
to  answer  him  by  a  convulsive  snatching  at  social  salvation 
she  coidd  not  say.    But  her  poor  foolish  mother  little  knew 


90  TESS   OF   THE   D^URBERVILLES. 

her  present  feeling  towards  this  man.  Perhaps  it  was  nn- 
nsnal  in  the  circumstances^  unnatural,  unaccountable ;  but 
there  it  was ;  and  this,  as  she  had  said,  was  what  made  her 
detest  herself.  She  had  never  cared  for  him,  she  did  not 
care  for  him  now.  She  had  dreaded  him,  mnced  before 
him,  succumbed  to  a  cruel  advantage  he  took  of  her  help- 
lessness 5  then,  temporarily  blinded  by  his  flash  manners, 
had  been  stirred  to  confused  surrender  awhile ;  had  sud- 
denly despised  and  disliked  him,  and  had  run  away.  That 
was  all.  Hate  him  she  did  not  quite ;  but  he  was  dust  and 
ashes  to  her,  and  even  for  her  name's  sake  she  scarcely 
wished  to  marrv  him. 

''You  ought  to  have  been  more  careful  if  you  didn't 
mean  to  get  him  to  make  you  his  wife  !  " 

"  O  mother,  my  mother !  "  cried  the  agonized  girl,  turn- 
ing passionately  upon  her  parent  as  if  her  poor  heart 
would  break.  "How  could  I  be  expected  to  know?  I 
was  a  child  when  I  left  this  house  four  months  ago.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  there  was  danger  in  men-folk  ?  Wliy 
didn't  you  warn  me  ?  Ladies  know  what  to  fend  hands 
against,  because  they  read  novels  that  tell  them  of  these 
tricks ;  but  I  never  had  the  chance  o'  learning  in  that  way, 
and  3'Ou  did  not  helj)  me  ! '' 

Her  mother  was  subdued. 

"  I  thought  if  I  spoke  of  his  fond  feelings  and  what  they 
might  lead  to,  you  would  be  hontish  wi'  him  and  lose  your 
chance,"  she  mm^mured,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron. 
"  Well,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,  I  suppose.  'Tis  nater, 
after  all,  and  w^hat  do  please  God." 


xni. 

The  event  of  Tess  Durbeyiield's  return  from  the  house 
of  her  rich  kinsfolk  was  rumored  abroad,  if  rumor  be  not 


:maidex  no  more.  91 

too  large  a  word  for  a  space  of  a  square  mile.  In  the  after- 
noon several  young  girls  of  Marlott,  former  schoolfellows 
and  acquaintances  of  Tess,  called  to  see  her,  arriving  dressed 
in  then*  best  starched  and  u'oned,  as  became  visitors  to  a 
person  who  had  made  a  transcendent  conquest  (as  they 
supposed),  and  sat  round  the  room  looking  at  her  "with 
great  curiosity.  For  the  fact  that  it  was  this  said  thirty- 
first  cousin,  Mr.  D'Url^erville,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  a  gentleman  not  altogether  local,  whose  reputation  as  a 
reckless  gallant  and  heart-breaker  was  beginning  to  spread 
beyond  the  immediate  boundaries  of  Trantridge,  lent  Tess's 
supposed  position,  by  its  f earsomeness,  a  far  higher  fascina- 
tion than  it  would  have  exercised  if  unhazardous. 

Their  interest  was  so  deep  that  the  younger  ones  whis- 
pered when  her  back  was  turned : 

"  How  pretty  she  is ;  and  how  that  best  frock  do  set  her 
oft* !  I  believe  it  cost  an  immense  deal,  and  that  it  was  a 
gift  from  him.'' 

Tess,  who  was  reaching  up  to  get  the  tea-things  from  the 
corner  cupboard,  did  not  hear  these  commentaries.  If  she 
had  heard  them,  she  might  soon  have  set  her  friends  right 
on  the  matter.  But  her  mother  heard,  and  Joan's  simple 
vanity,  having  been  denied  the  hope  of  a  dashing  marriage, 
fed  itself  as  well  as  it  could  upon  the  sensation  of  a  dash- 
ing flirtation.  Upon  the  whole  she  felt  gratified,  even 
though  such  a  limited  and  meretricious  trimnph  should 
involve  her  daughter's  reputation ;  it  might  end  in  mar- 
riage yet,  and  in  the  warmth  of  her  responsiveness  to  theh' 
admiration  she  invited  her  \dsitors  to  stay  to  tea. 

Theu'  chatter,  their  laughter,  then'  good-humored  innuen- 
does, above  all,  theii*  flashes  and  flickerings  of  env}^,  revived 
Tess's  spirits  also ;  and,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  she  caught 
the  infection  of  their  excitement,  and  grew  almost  gay. 
The  marble  hardness  left  her  face,  she  moved  mth  some- 
thing of  her  old  bounding  step,  and  flushed  in  all  her  young 
beauty. 


92  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

At  moments^  in  spite  of  tliouglit,  she  would  reply  to  their 
inquiries  with  a  manner  of  superiority,  as  if  recognizing 
that  her  experiences  in  the  field  of  coui'tship  had,  indeed, 
been  shghtly  enviable.  But  so  far  was  she  from  being,  in 
the  words  of  Robert  South,  "  in  love  with  her  own  ruin," 
that  the  illusion  was  transient  as  lightning ;  cold  reason 
came  back  to  mock  her  spasmodic  weakness  -,  the  ghastli- 
ness  of  her  momentary  pride  would  convict  her,  and  recall 
her  to  reserved  listlessness  again. 

And  the  despondency  of  the  next  morning's  dawn,  when 
it  was  no  longer  Sunday,  but  Monday ;  and  no  best  clothes ; 
and  the  laughing  visitors  were  gone,  and  she  awoke  alone 
in  her  old  bed,  the  innocent  younger  cliildren  breathing 
softly  around  her.  In  place  of  the  excitement  of  her  re- 
tm'n,  and  the  interest  it  had  inspired,  she  saw  before  her 
a  long  and  stony  highway  which  she  had  to  tread,  without 
aid,  and  with  little  sympathy.  Her  depression  was  then 
terrible,  and  she  could  have  hidden  herself  in  a  tomb. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  Tess  revived  sufficiently  to 
show  herself  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  get  to  church  one 
Sunday  morning.  She  liked  to  hear  the  chanting — such 
as  it  was — and  the  old  Psalms,  and  to  join  in  the  Morning 
H}Tnn.  That  innate  love  of  melody,  which  she  had  in- 
herited from  her  ballad-singing  mother,  gave  the  simplest 
music  a  power  over  her  which  could  well-nigh  di'ag  her 
heart  out  of  her  bosom  at  times. 

To  be  as  much  out  of  observation  as  possible  for  reasons 
of  her  own,  and  to  escape  the  gallantries  of  the  young  men, 
she  set  out  before  the  chiming  began,  and  took  a  back  seat 
under  the  gallery,  close  to  the  lumber,  where  only  old  men 
and  women  came,  and  where  the  bier  stood  on  end  among 
the  churchyard  tools. 

Parishioners  dropped  in  by  twos  and  threes,  deposited 
themselves  in  rows  before  her,  rested  three-quarters  of  a 
minute  on  their  foreheads  as  if  they  were  prajdng,  though 
they  were  not,  then  sat  up,  and  looked  around.     "V\nien  the 


JMAIDEN  NO  MORE.  93 

chants  came  on,  one  of  her  favorites  happened  to  be  chosen 
among  the  rest — the  double  chant  "Langdon" — but  she 
did  not  know  what  it  was  called,  though  she  would  much 
have  liked  to  know.  She  thought,  without  exactly  wording 
the  thought,  how  strange  and  godhke  was  a  composer's 
power,  who  from  the  grave  could  lead  through  sequences 
of  emotion,  which  he  alone  had  felt  at  first,  a  gii4  like  her 
who  had  never  heard  of  his  name,  and  never  would  have  a 
clue  to  his  personality. 

The  people  who  had  turned  their  heads  turned  them 
again  as  the  service  proceeded ;  and  at  last  obser\dng  her, 
they  whispered  to  each  other.  She  knew  what  their  whis- 
pers were  about,  grew  sick  at  heart,  and  felt  that  she  could 
come  to  church  no  more. 

The  bedi'oom  which  she  shared  with  some  of  the  children 
formed  her  retreat  more  continuallv  than  ever.  Here, 
under  her  few  square  yards  of  thatch,  she  watched  mnds, 
and  snows,  and  rains,  gorgeous  sunsets,  and  successive 
moons  at  their  full.  So  close  kept  she  that  at  length  ahnost 
everybody  thought  she  had  gone  away. 

The  onlv  exercise  that  Tess  took  at  this  time  was  after 
dark ;  and  it  was  then,  when  out  in  the  woods,  that  she 
seemed  least  solitarv.  She  knew  how  to  hit  to  a  hair's- 
breadth  that  moment  of  evening  when  the  light  and  the 
darkness  are  so  evenly  balanced  that  the  constraint  of  dav 
and  the  suspense  of  night  neutralize  each  other,  leaving 
absolute  mental  hberty.  It  is  then  that  the  pKght  of  being 
alive  becomes  attenuated  to  its  least  possible  dimensions. 
She  had  no  fear  of  the  shadows ;  her  sole  idea  seemed  to 
be  to  shun  mankind — or  rather  that  cold  accretion  caUed 
the  world,  which,  so  terril^le  in  the  mass,  is  so  unformida- 
ble,  even  pitiable,  in  its  units. 

On  these  lonely  hills  and  dales  her  quiescent  glide  was 
of  a  piece  with  the  element  she  moved  in.  Her  flexuous 
and  stealthy  figure  became  an  integral  part  of  the  scene. 
At  times  her  whimsical  fancy  would  intensify  natural  pro- 


94  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

cesses  around  lier  till  tliey  seemed  a  part  of  her  own  story. 
Eatlier  tliey  became  a  part  of  it;  for  the  world  is  only 
a  psychological  phenomenon,  and  what  they  seemed  they 
were.  The  midnight  aii's  and  gusts,  moaning  among  the 
tightly  ^Tapped  buds  and  bark  of  the  winter  twigs,  were 
formulas  of  bitter  reproach.  A  wet  day  was  the  expression 
of  iiTcmediable  grief  at  her  weakness  in  the  mind  of  some 
vague  ethical  being  whom  she  could  not  class  definitely  as 
the  God  of  her  childhood,  and  could  not  comprehend  as 
an}^  other. 

But  this  encompassment  of  her  own  characterization, 
based  on  shreds  of  convention,  peopled  by  phantoms  and 
voices  antipathetic  to  her,  was  a  sorry  and  mistaken  crea- 
tion of  Tess's  fancy — a  cloud  of  moral  hobgobhns  by  which 
she  was  terrified  mthout  reason.  It  was  they  that  were 
out  of  harmony  with  the  actual  world,  not  she.  Walking 
among  the  sleeping  birds  in  the  hedges,  watching  the  skip- 
ping rabbits  on  a  moonlit  warren,  or  standing  under  a 
pheasant-laden  bough,  she  looked  upon  herself  as  a  figure 
of  Guilt  intruding  into  the  haunts  of  Innocence.  But  aU 
the  while  she  was  making  a  distinction  where  there  was  no 
difference.  Feeling  herself  in  antagonism,  she  was  quite 
in  accord.  She  had  been  made  to  break  an  accepted  social 
law,  but  no  law  known  to  the  environment  in  which  she 
fancied  herseK  such  an  anomaly. 


XIV. 

It  was  a  hazy  sunrise  in  August.  The  denser  nocturnal 
vapors,  attacked  by  the  warm  beams,  were  dividing  and 
shrinking  into  isolated  fleeces  within  hollows  and  coverts, 
where  they  waited  tiU  they  should  be  dried  away  to  nothing. 

The  sun,  on  account  of  the  mist,  had  a  curious  sentient, 


MAIDEN  NO  MORE.  95 

personal  look,  demanding  the  masenline  pronoun  for  its 
adequate  expression.  His  present  aspect,  coupled  with  the 
lack  of  aU  human  forms  in  the  scene,  explained  the  old- 
time  heliolatries  in  a  moment.  One  could  feel  that  a  saner 
reUgion  had  never  prevailed  under  the  sky.  The  lumi- 
nary was  a  golden-haired,  beaming-faced,  mild-eyed,  god- 
like creature,  gazing  down  in  the  vigor  and  intentness  of 
youth  upon  an  earth  that  was  brimming  with  interest  for 
him. 

His  light,  a  little  later,  broke  through  chinks  of  cottage 
shutters,  thi^omng  stripes  like  red-hot  pokers  upon  cup- 
boards, chests  of  drawers,  and  other  furnitui'e  mthin,  and 
awakening  harvesters  who  were  not  already  astir. 

But  of  aU  ruddy  things  that  morning  the  brightest  were 
two  broad  arms  of  painted  wood,  which  rose  from  the  mar- 
gin of  a  yellow  corn-field  hard  by  Marlott  village.  They, 
with  two  others  below,  formed  the  revolving  Maltese  cross 
of  the  reaping-machine,  which  had  been  brought  to  the  field 
on  the  previous  evening  to  be  ready  for  operations  this  day. 
The  paint  with  which  they  were  smeared,  intensified  in  hue 
by  the  sunlight,  imparted  to  them  a  look  of  ha\ing  been 
dipped  in  liquid  fire. 

The  field  had  already  been  "  opened " ;  that  is  to  say,  a 
lane  a  few  feet  wide  had  been  hand-cut  through  the  wheat 
along  the  whole  circumference  of  the  field  for  the  first 
passage  of  the  horses  and  machine. 

Two  groups,  one  of  men  and  lads,  the  other  of  women, 
had  come  down  the  lane  just  at  the  houi*  when  the  shadows 
of  the  eastern  hedge-top  struck  the  west  hedge  midway,  so 
that  the  heads  of  the  groups  were  enjoying  sunrise  while 
their  feet  were  still  in  the  dawn.  They  disappeared  from 
the  lane  between  the  two  stone  posts  which  flanked  the 
nearest  field-gate. 

Presently  there  arose  from  -^dthin  a  ticking  like  the  love- 
making  of  the  grasshopper.  The  machine  had  begun,  and 
a  moving  concatenation  was  visible  over  the  gate,  a  driver 


96  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

sitting  upon  one  of  tlie  hauling  horses,  and  an  attendant 
on  the  seat  of  the  implement.  Along  one  side  of  the  field 
the  whole  wain  went,  the  arms  of  the  mechanical  reaper 
revohing  slowly,  till  it  passed  down  the  hill  quite  out  of 
sight.  In  a  minute  it  came  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  field 
at  the  .same  equable  pace,  the  gUstening  brass  star  in  the 
forehead  of  the  fore  horse  catching  the  eye  as  it  rose  into 
\dew  over  the  stubble,  then  the  bright  arms,  and  then  the 
whole  machine. 

The  narrow  lane  of  stubble  encompassing  the  field  grew 
wider  with  each  circuit,  and  the  standing  corn  was  reduced 
to  smaller  area  as  the  morning  wore  on.  Rabbits,  hares, 
snakes,  rats,  mice,  retreated  inward  as  into  a  fastness,  un- 
aware of  the  ephemeral  nature  of  their  refuge,  and  of  the 
doom  that  awaited  them  later  in  the  dav  when,  their  covert 
shrinking  to  a  more  and  more  horrible  narro^vness,  they 
were  huddled  together,  friends  and  foes,  till  the  last  few 
yards  of  upright  wheat  fell  also  under  the  teeth  of  the  un- 
erring reaper,  and  they  were  every  one  put  to  death  by  the 
sticks  and  stones  of  the  harvesters. 

The  reaping-machine  left  the  fallen  corn  behind  it  in  lit- 
tle heaps,  each  heap  being  of  the  quantity  for  a  sheaf ;  and 
upon  these  the  active  binders  in  the  rear  laid  their  hands — 
mainly  women,  but  some  of  them  men  in  print  shirts,  and 
trousers  supported  around  theii'  waists  by  leather  straps, 
rendering  useless  the  two  buttons  behind,  which  twinkled 
and  bristled  vnth  sunbeams  at  every  movement  of  each 
wearer,  as  if  they  were  a  pair  of  eyes  in  the  small  of  Ms 
back. 

But  those  of  the  other  sex  were  the  most  interesting  of 
this  company  of  binders,  by  reason  of  the  charm  which  is 
acquired  by  woman  when  she  becomes  part  and  parcel  of 
outdoor  nature,  and  is  not  merely  an  object  set  down  therein 
as  at  ordinary  times.  A  field-man  is  a  personality  afield ; 
a  field- woman  is  a  portion  of  the  field  j  she  has  somehow 


IMAIDEN  NO   MORE.  97 

lost  lier  owii  margin,  imbibed  the  essence  of  her  surround- 
ing", and  assimilated  herself  mth  it. 

The  women — or  rather  girls,  for  they  were  mostly  young 
— wore  di'awn  cotton  bonnets  with  great  flapping  curtains 
to  keep  off  the  sun,  and  gloves  to  prevent  their  hands  be- 
ing wounded  by  the  stubble.  There  was  one  wearing  a 
pale- pink  jacket ;  another  in  a  cream-colored,  tight-sleeved 
gown ;  another  in  a  petticoat  as  red  as  the  arms  of  the 
reaping-machine ;  and  others,  older,  in  the  brown-rough 
"wi'opper'^  or  over-all — the  old-established  and  most  ap- 
propriate di'ess  of  the  field- woman,  which  the  young  ones 
were  abandoning.  This  morning  the  eye  retiu*ns  involun- 
tarily to  the  girl  in  the  pink  cotton  jacket,  she  being  the 
most  flexuous  and  finely  drawn  figure  of  them  all.  But 
her  bonnet  is  pulled  so  far  over  her  brow  that  none  of  her 
face  is  disclosed  while  she  binds,  though  her  complexion 
may  be  guessed  from  a  stray  twine  or  tw^o  of  dark-bro^Ti 
hair  which  extends  below  the  cm-tain  of  her  bonnet.  Per- 
haps one  reason  why  she  seduces  casual  attention  is  that 
she  never  courts  it,  though  the  other  women  often  gaze 
around  them. 

Her  binding  proceeds  with  clock-like  monotony.  From 
the  sheaf  last  finished  she  di-aws  a  handful  of  ears,  patting 
theii-  tips  vnth  her  left  palm  to  bring  them  even.  Then, 
stooping  low,  she  moves  forward,  gathering  the  corn  with 
both  hands  against  her  knees,  and  pushing  her  left  gloved 
hand  under  the  bundle  to  meet  the  right  on  the  other  side, 
holding  the  corn  in  an  embrace  like  that  of  a  lover.  She 
brings  the  ends  of  the  bond  together,  and  kneels  on  the 
sheaf  while  she  ties  it,  beating  back  her  skirts  now  and 
then  when  lifted  bv  the  breeze.  A  bit  of  her  naked  arm  is 
visible  between  the  buff  leather  of  the  gauntlet  and  the 
sleeve  of  her  gown ;  and  as  the  day  wears  on  its  feminine 
smoothness  becomes  scarified  by  the  stubble,  and  bleeds. 

At  intervals  she  stands  up  to  rest,  and  to  re-tie  her  dis- 


98  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

arranged  apron,  or  to  pull  her  bonnet  straight.  Then  one 
can  see  the  oval  face  of  a  handsome  young  woman,  with 
deep,  dark  eyes,  and  long,  hea\'y^,  clinging  tresses,  which 
seem  to  clasp  in  a  beseeching  way  anything  they  fall 
against.  The  cheeks  are  paler,  the  teeth  more  regular,  the 
red  lips  thinner  than  is  usual  in  a  countr^^-bred  girl. 

It  is  Tess  Dui'beyfield,  otherwise  D'Urberville,  somewhat 
changed — the  same,  but  not  the  same ;  at  the  present  stage 
of  her  existence  li^dng  as  a  stranger  and  an  alien  here, 
though  it  was  no  strange  land  that  she  was  in.  After  a 
long  seclusion  she  had  come  to  a  resolve,  during  the  week 
under  notice,  to  undertake  outdoor  work  in  her  native  \dl- 
lage,  the  busiest  season  of  the  year  in  the  agricultural  world 
having  arrived,  and  nothing  that  she  could  do  within  the 
house  being  so  remunerative  for  the  time  as  harvesting  in 
the  fields. 

The  movements  of  the  other  women  were  more  or  less 
similar  to  Tess's,  the  whole  bevy  of  them  drawing  together 
like  dancers  in  a  quadrille  at  the  completion  of  a  sheaf  by 
each,  every  one  placing  her  sheaf  on  end  against  those  of 
the  rest,  tiU  a  shock,  or  "stitch"  as  it  was  here  called,  of 
ten  or  a  dozen  was  formed. 

They  went  to  breakfast,  and  came  again,  and  the  work 
proceeded  as  before.  As  the  hour  of  eleven  drew  near  a 
person  watching  her  might  have  noticed  that  Tess's  glance 
flitted  wdstfully  to  the  brow  of  the  hill  every  now  and  then, 
though  she  did  not  pause  in  her  sheafing.  On  the  verge  of 
the  hoiu*  the  heads  of  a  gi'oup  of  children,  of  ages  ranging 
from  six  to  fourteen,  rose  above  the  stubbly  convexity  of 
the  hill. 

The  face  of  Tess  flushed  slightly,  but  still  she  did  not 
pause. 

The  eldest  of  the  comers,  a  girl  who  wore  a  triangular 
shawl,  its  corner  draggling  on  the  stubble,  carried  in  her 
arms  what  at  first  sight  seemed  to  be  a  doll,  but  proved  to 
be  an  infant  in  long  clothes.     Another  brought  some  lunch. 


MAIDEN  NO  MORE.  99 

The  harvesters  ceased  working,  took  their  provisions,  and 
sat  down  against  one  of  the  shocks.  Here  they  feU  to,  the 
men  plying  a  stone  jar  freely,  and  passing  round  a  cup. 

Tess  Durbeyfield  had  been  one  of  the  last  to  suspend  her 
labors.  She  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  shock,  her  face 
turned  somewhat  away  from  her  companions.  When  she 
had  deposited  herself  a  man  in  a  rabbit-skin  cap  and  with 
a  red  handkerchief  tucked  into  his  belt  held  the  cup  of  ale 
over  the  top  of  the  shock  for  her  to  drink.  But  she  did  not 
accept  his  offer.  As  soon  as  her  lunch  was  spread  she 
called  up  the  big  gii'l,  her  sister,  and  took  the  baby  of  her, 
who,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  burden,  went  away  to  the 
next  shock  and  joined  the  other  childi-en  playing  there. 
Tess,  with  a  curiously  stealthy  yet  courageous  movement, 
and  "v\dth  a  still  rising  color,  unfastened  her  frock  and  be- 
gan suckling  the  child. 

The  men  who  sat  nearest  considerately  turned  their  faces 
towards  the  other  end  of  the  field,  some  of  them  beginning 
to  smoke;  one,  with  absent-minded  fondness,  regretfully 
stroking  the  jar  that  would  no  longer  yield  a  stream.  All 
the  women  but  Tess  fell  into  animated  talk,  and  adjusted 
the  disarranged  knots  of  theii'  hair. 

When  the  infant  had  taken  its  fill  the  young  mother  sat 
it  upright  in  her  lap,  and,  looking  into  the  far  distance, 
dandled  it  with  a  gloomy  indifference  that  was  almost  dis- 
like ;  then  all  of  a  sudden  she  fell  to  violently  kissing  it 
some  dozens  of  times,  as  if  she  could  never  leave  off,  the 
child  crying  at  the  vehemence  of  an  onset  which  strangely 
combined  passionateness  with- contempt. 

'^  She's  fond  of  that  there  child,  though  she  mid  pretend 
not  to  be,  and  say  she  wishes  the  baby  and  her  too  were  in 
the  churchyard,"  observed  the  woman  in  the  red  petticoat. 

''  She'll  soon  leave  off  saying  that,"  replied  the  one  in 
buff.  ''  Lord,  'tis  wonderful  what  a  body  can  get  used  to 
o'  that  sort  in  time  !  " 

"  A  little  more  than  persuading  had  to  do  wi'  the  coming 


100  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

o't,  I  reckon.  There  were  they  that  heard  a  sobbing  one 
night  last  year  in  The  Chase  j  and  it  mid  ha'  gone  hard  m' 
a  certain  party  if  folks  had  come  along." 

''  Well,  a  httle  more  or  a  little  less,  'twas  a  thonsand 
pities  that  it  shonld  have  happened  to  she,  of  all  others. 
Bnt  'tis  always  the  comeliest !  The  plain  ones  be  as  safe 
as  chui'ches — hey,  Jenny  ? ''  The  speaker  tni'ned  to  one  of 
the  gronp,  who  certainly  was  not  ill-defined  as  plain. 

It  was  a  thonsand  pities,  indeed ;  it  was  impossible  for 
even  an  enemy  to  feel  othermse  on  looking  at  Tess  as  she 
sat  there,  Avith  her  flower-like  mouth  and  large,  tender  eyes, 
neither  black  nor  blue  nor  gray  nor  violet ;  rather  all  those 
shades  together,  and  a  hundred  others,  which  could  be  seen 
if  one  looked  into  theu'  irises — shade  behmd  shade — tint 
beyond  tint — round  depths  that  had  no  bottom  5  an  almost 
typical  woman,  but  for  the  slight  incautiousness  of  charac- 
ter inherited  from  her  race. 

A  resolution  which  had  sm^rised  herseK  had  brought 
her  into  the  fields  this  week  for  the  fii'st  time  during  many 
months.  After  wearing  and  wasting  her  palpitating  heart 
with  every  engine  of  regret  that  lonely  inexperience  could 
devise,  common-sense  had  illumined  her.  She  felt  that 
she  would  do  well  to  be  usefid  again — to  taste  anew  sweet 
independence  at  any  price.  The  past  was  past ;  whatever 
it  had  been,  it  was  no  more  at  hand.  Wliatever  its  conse- 
quences, time  would  close  over  them ;  they  would  all  in  a 
few  years  be  as  if  they  had  never  been,  and  she  herself 
grassed  down  and  forgotten.  Meanwhile  the  trees  were 
just  as  gi'een  as  before ;  the  birds  sang  and  the  sun  shone 
as  clearly  now  as  ever.  The  familiar  surroundings  had  not 
darkened  because  of  her  grief,  nor  sickened  because  of  her 
pain. 

She  might  have  seen  that  what  had  bowed  her  head  so 
profoundly — the  thought  of  the  world's  concern  at  her  situ- 
ation— was  founded  on  an  illusion.  She  was  not  an  exist- 
ence, an  experience,  a  passion,  a  structiu'c  of  sensations,  to 


IMAIDEN  NO   MORE.  lUl 

anybody  but  herself.  To  all  Immankind  besides,  Tess  was 
only  a  passing  tlionglit.  If  she  made  herself  miserable  the 
livelong  night  and  day  it  was  only  this  nincli  to  them — 
''Ah,  she  makes  herself  nnhappy."  If  she  tried  to  be  cheer- 
ful, to  dismiss  all  care,  to  take  pleasure  in  the  dayhght, 
the  flowers,  the  baby,  she  could  only  be  this  idea  to  them — 
''All,  she  bears  it  very  w^ell."  Alone  in  a  desert  island 
would  she  have  been  wretched  at  what  had  happened  to 
her?  Not  greatly.  If  she  could  have  been  but  just  cre- 
ated, to  discover  herself  as  a  spouseless  mother,  with  no 
experience  of  life  except  as  the  parent  of  a  nameless  child, 
would  the  position  have  caused  her  to  despair?  No,  she 
would  have  taken  it  calmly,  and  found  pleasures  therein. 
Most  of  the  misery  had  been  generated  by  her  conventional 
aspect,  and  not  by  her  innate  sensations. 

Whatever  Tess's  reasoning,  some  spirit  had  induced  her 
to  dress  herself  up  neatly  as  she  had  formerly  done,  and 
come  out  into  the  fields,  harvest-hands  being  greatly  in  de- 
mand just  then.  This  was  why  she  had  borne  herself  with 
dignity,  and  had  looked  people  calmly  in  the  face  at  times, 
even  when  holding  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

The  harvest-men  rose  from  the  shock  of  corn,  and 
stretched  their  limbs,  and  extinguished  theu'  pipes.  The 
horses,  which  had  been  unharnessed  and  fed,  were  again  at- 
tached to  the  scarlet  machine.  Tess,  having  quickly  eaten 
her  own  meal,  beckoned  to  her  eldest  sister  to  come  and 
take  aw^ay  the  baby,  fastened  her  dress,  put  on  the  buff 
gloves  again,  and  stooped  anew  to  draw  a  bond  from  the 
last  completed  sheaf  for  the  tying  of  the  next. 

In  the  afternoon  and  evening  the  proceedings  of  the 
morning  were  continued,  Tess  staying  on  till  dusk  with 
the  body  of  harvesters.  Then  they  all  rode  home  in  one  of 
the  largest  wagons,  in  the  company  of  a  broad  tarnished 
moon  that  had  risen  from  the  ground  to  the  eastwards,  its 
face  resembling  the  outworn  gold-leaf  halo  of  some  worm- 
eaten  Tuscan  saint.     Tess's  female  companions  sang  songs, 


102  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

and  sliowed  themselves  very  sympathetic  and  glad  at  her 
reappearance  out-of-doors,  though  they  could  not  refrain 
from  mischievously  throwing  in  a  few  verses  of  the  ballad 
about  the  maid  who  went  to  the  merry  green  wood  and 
came  back  a  changed  person.  There  are  counterpoises  and 
compensations  in  life  5  and  the  event  w^hich  had  made  of 
her  a  social  warning  had  also  for  the  moment  made  her  the 
most  interesting  personage  in  the  ^nllage  to  many.  Their 
friendliness  won  her  still  further  away  from  herself,  their 
lively  spirits  were  contagious,  and  she  became  almost  gay. 

But  now  that  her  moral  sorrows  were  passing  away  a 
fresh  one  arose  on  the  natural  side  of  her  which  knew^  no 
social  law.  When  she  reached  home  it  was  to  learn  to  her 
grief  that  the  baby  had  been  suddenly  taken  ill  since  the 
afternoon.  Some  such  collapse  had  been  probable,  so  ten- 
der and  puny  was  its  fi'ame ;  but  the  event  came  as  a  shock 
nevertheless. 

The  baby's  offence  against  society  in  coming  into  the 
world  was  forgotten  by  the  girl-mother;  her  soul's  desire 
was  to  continue  that  offence  by  preserving  the  life  of  the 
child.  However,  it  soon  gi^ew  clear  that  the  hour  of  eman- 
cipation for  that  little  prisoner  of  the  flesh  was  to  arrive 
earlier  than  her  worst  misgivings  had  Conjectured.  And 
when  she  had  discovered  this  she  was  plunged  into  a  misery 
which  transcended  that  of  the  child's  simple  loss.  Her 
baby  had  not  been  baptized. 

Tess  had  di^if ted  into  a  frame  of  mind  which  accepted 
passively  the  consideration  that  if  she  should  have  to  burn 
for  what  she  had  done,  burn  she  must,  and  there  was  an 
end  of  it.  Like  all  \dllage  girls,  she  was  well  grounded  in 
the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  had  dutifully  studied  the  histories 
of  Aholah  and  Aholibah,  and  knew  the  inferences  to  be 
dra-vvn  therefrom.  But  when  the  same  question  arose  with 
regard  to  the  baby,  it  had  a  very  different  color.  Her  dar- 
ling was  about  to  die,  and  no  salvation. 

It  was  nearly  bedtime,  but  she  rushed  downstairs  and 


MAIDEN  NO   MORE.  103 

asked  if  she  might  send  for  the  parson.  The  moment  hap- 
pened to  be  one  at  which  her  father's  sense  of  the  antique 
nobility  of  his  family  was  highest,  and  his  sensitiveness  to 
the  smudge  which  Tess  had  set  upon  that  nobility  most 
pronounced,  for  he  had  just  returned  from  his  evening 
booze  at  Rolliver's  Inn.  No  parson  should  come  inside  his 
door,  he  declared,  prying  into  his  affairs  just  then,  when, 
by  her  shame,  it  had  become  more  necessary  than  ever 
to  liide  them.  He  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  his 
pocket. 

The  household  went  to  bed,  and,  distressed  beyond 
measure,  Tess  retired  also.  She  was  continually  waking 
as  she  lay,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  found  that  the 
baby  was  still  worse.  It  was  ob\dously  dying — quietly  and 
painlessly,  but  none  the  less  surely. 

In  her  misery  she  rocked  herself  upon  the  bed.  The 
clock  struck  the  solemn  hour  of  one,  that  horn."  when 
thought  stalks  outside  reason,  and  malignant  possibilities 
stand  rock-firm  as  facts.  She  thought  of  the  child  con- 
signed to  the  nethermost  corner  of  hell,  as  its  double  doom 
for  lack  of  baptism  and  lack  of  legitimacy  5  saw  the  arch- 
fiend tossing  it  ^^dth  his  three-pronged  fork,  like  the  one 
they  used  for  heating  the  oven  on  baking  days  5  to  which 
pictm'e  she  added  many  other  quaint  and  curious  details 
of  torment  taught  the  young  in  this  Christian  country. 
The  lurid  presentment  so  powerfully  affected  her  imagina- 
tion in  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  house,  that  her  night- 
gown became  damp  with  perspu'ation,  and  the  bedstead 
shook  with  each  throb  of  her  heart. 

The  infant's  breathing  grew  more  difficult,  and  the 
mother's  mental  tension  increased.  It  was  useless  to 
devour  the  little  thing  with  kisses ;  she  could  stay  in  bed 
no  longer,  and  walked  feverishly  about  the  room. 

"  0  merciful  God,  have  pity  5  have  pity  upon  my  poor 
baby !  "  she  cried.  ^'  Heap  as  much  anger  as  you  want  to 
upon  me,  and  welcome ;  but  pity  the  child  !  '^ 


104  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBER^^LLES. 

Slie  leant  against  the  cliest  of  drawers,  and  mnrmnred 
incoherent  sujDplications  for  a  long  while,  till  she  suddenly 
started  up. 

"  Ah !  perhaps  baby  can  be  saved !  Perhaps  it  will  be 
just  the  same !  " 

She  spoke  so  brightly  that  it  seemed  as  though  her  face 
might  have  shone  in  the  gloom  surrounding  her. 

She  ht  a  candle,  and  went  to  a  second  and  a  third  bed 
under  the  wall,  where  she  awoke  her  little  sisters  and 
brothers,  all  of  whom  occupied  the  same  room.  Pulling 
out  the  washing-stand  so  that  she  could  get  behind  it,  she 
poured  some  water  from  a  jug,  and  made  them  kneel 
around,  putting  their  hands  together  with  fingers  exactly 
vertical.  Wliile  the  children,  scarcely  awake,  awe-stricken 
at  her  manner,  their  eyes  growing  larger  and  larger,  re- 
mained in  this  position,  she  took  the  baby  from  her  bed — a 
child's  child — so  immature  as  scarce  to  seem  a  sufiicient 
personahty  to  endow  its  producer  with  the  maternal  title. 
Tess  then  stood  erect  with  the  infant  on  her  arm  beside  the 
basin,  the  next  sister  held  the  Prayer-Book  open  before  her, 
as  the  clerk  at  church  held  it  before  the  parson ;  and  thus 
the  emotional  girl  set  about'baptizing  her  child. 

Her  figure  looked  singularly  tall  and  imposing  as  she 
stood  in  her  long  white  nightgown,  a  thick  cable  of  twisted 
dark  hair  hanging  straight  down  her  back  to  her  waist. 
The  kindly  dimness  of  the  weak  candle  abstracted  from 
her  form  and  features  the  little  blemishes  which  sunlight 
might  have  revealed — the  stubble  scratches  upon  her  wrists, 
and  the  weariness  of  her  eyes — her  high  enthusiasm  lia^dng 
a  transfiguring  effect  upon  the  face  w^hich  had  been  her 
undoing,  showing  it  as  a  thing  of  immaculate  beauty,  with 
an  impress  of  dignity  which  was  almost  regal.  The  little 
ones  kneeling  round,  their  sleepy  eyes  blinking  and  red, 
awaited  her  preparations  full  of  a  suspended  wonder  which 
their  physical  heaviness  at  that  hour  would  not  allow  to 
become  active. 


MAIDEN  NO  MORE.  105 

Tlie  eldest  of  tliem  said : 

"  Be  you  really  going  to  eliristen  him,  Tess  ? " 

The  gii'l-mother  replied  in  a  grave  affirmative. 

"  What^s  his  name  going  to  be  ? " 

She  had  not  thought  of  that,  but  a  name  came  into  her 
head  as  she  proceeded  with  the  baptismal  ser\dce,  and  now 
she  pronounced  it : 

"  Sorrow,  I  baptize  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and 
of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

She  sprinkled  the  water,  and  there  was  silence. 

"  Say  'Amen,'  children." 

The  tiny  voices  piped  in  obedient  response  :  "  Amen  !  " 

Tess  went  on : 

"We  receive  this  child" — and  so  forth — "and  do  sign 
him  mth  the  sign  of  the  Cross." 

Here  she  dij^ped  her  hand  into  the  basin,  and  fervently 
drew  an  immense  cross  upon  the  baby  with  her  forefinger, 
continuing  with  the  customary  sentences  as  to  his  manfully 
fighting  against  sin,  the  world,  and  the  devil,  and  being  a 
faithful  soldier  and  servant  unto  his  life's  end.  She  duly 
went  on  with  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the  children  lisping  it  after 
her  in  a  thin,  gnat-like  wail,  till,  at  the  conclusion,  raising 
then*  voices  to  clerk's  pitch,  they  again  piped  into  the 
silence,  "  Amen  !  " 

Then  their  sister,  with  much  augmented  confidence  in 
the  efficacy  of  this  sacrament,  poirred  forth  from  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  the  thanksgi\dng  that  follows,  uttering  it 
boldly  and  triumphantly  in  the  stopt-diapason  note  which 
her  voice  acquired  when  her  heart  was  in  her  speech,  and 
which  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  knew  her.  The 
ecstasy  of  faith  almost  apotheosized  her ;  it  set  upon  her 
face  a  glowing  irradiation,  and  brought  a  red  spot  into  the 
middle  of  each  cheek ;  while  the  miniature  candle-flame  in- 
verted in  her  eye-pupils  shone  like  a  diamond.  The  children 
gazed  up  at  her  with  more  and  more  reverence,  and  no 
longer  had  a  will  for  questioning.     She  did  not  look  like 


106      '  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Sissy  to  them  now,  but  as  a  being  large,  towering,  and 
awful — a  divine  personage  -with,  whom  they  had  nothing  in 
common. 

Poor  Sorrow's  campaign  against  sin,  the  world,  and  the 
devil  was  doomed  to  be  of  limited  brilliancy — luckily  per- 
haps for  himself,  considering  his  beginnings.  In  the  blue 
of  the  morning  that  fragile  soldier  and  servant  breathed 
his  last,  and  when  the  other  children  awoke  they  cried 
bitterly,  and  begged  Sissy  to  have  another  pretty  baby. 

The  calmness  which  had  j^ossessed  Tess  since  the  christen- 
ing remained  Tvith  her  in  the  infant's  loss.  In  the  daj'light, 
indeed,  she  felt  her  terrors  about  his  soul  to  have  been 
somewhat  exaggerated ;  whether  well  founded  or  not,  she 
had  no  uneasiness  now,  reasoning  that  if  Providence  woidd 
not  ratify  such  an  act  of  approximation  she,  for  one,  did 
not  value  the  kind  of  heaven  lost  by  the  irregularity — either 
for  herself  or  for  her  child. 

So  passed  away  Sorrow  the  Undesired — that  intrusive 
creature,  that  bastard  gift  of  shameless  Nature  who  respects 
not  the  ci^oL  law ;  a  waif  to  whom  eternal  Time  had  been  a 
matter  of  days  merely,  who  knew  not  that  such  things  as 
years  and  centuries  ever  were ;  to  whom  the  cottage  interior 
was  the  universe,  the  week's  weather  climate,  new-born 
babyhood  human  existence,  and  the  instinct  to  suck  human 
knowledge. 

Tess,  who  mused  on  the  christening  a  good  deal,  won- 
dered if  it  were  doctrinally  sufficient  to  secure  a  Christian 
burial  for  the  child.  Nobody  could  tell  this  but  the  parson 
of  the  parish,  and  he  was  a  new-comer,  and  a  very  reserved 
man.  She  went  to  his  house  after  dusk,  and  stood  bv  the 
gate,  but  could  not  summon  courage  to  go  in.  The  enter- 
prise would  have  been  abandoned  if  she  had  not  by  accident 
met  him  coming  homeward  as  she  turned  away.  In  the 
gloom  she  did  not  mind  speaking  freely. 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  something,  sir." 

He  expressed  his  \\illingness  to  listen^  and  she  told  the 


IMAIDEN  NO   MORE.  107 

story  of   the  baby's   illness   and   the   extemporized   ordi- 
nance. 

"And  now,  sir/'  she  added,  earnestly,  "can  you  tell  me 
this — will  it  be  just  the  same  for  him  as  if  you  had  baptized 
him  ? " 

Having  the  natural  feelings  of  a  tradesman  at  finding 
that  a  job  he  should  have  been  called  in  for  had  been  un- 
skilfully botched  by  his  customers  among  themselves,  he 
was  disposed  to  say  no.  Yet  the  dignity  of  the  girl,  the 
strange  tenderness  in  her  voice,  combined  to  affect  his 
nobler  impulses — or  rather  those  that  he  had  left  in  him 
after  ten  years  of  endeavor  to  graft  technical  belief  on 
actual  scepticism.  The  man  and  the  ecclesiastic  fought 
within  him,  and  the  \'ictorv  fell  to  the  man. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  it  mil  be  just  the  same." 

"  Then  will  you  give  him  a  Christian  burial  ? "  she  asked, 
quickly. 

The  vicar  felt  himself  cornered.  Hearing  of  the  baby's 
illness,  he  had  conscientiously  come  to  the  house  after 
nightfall  to  perform  the  rite,  and,  unaware  that  the  refusal 
to  admit  him  had  come  from  Tess's  father  and  not  from 
Tess,  he  could  not  allow  the  plea  of  necessity. 

"  Ah — that's  another  matter,"  he  said. 

"  Another  matter — why  ? "  asked  Tess,  rather  warmly. 

"  Well — I  would  williufflv  do  so  if  onlv  we  two  were  con- 
cerned.     But  I  must  not — for  liturgical  reasons." 

"  Just  for  once,  sir !  " 

"  Reallv,  I  m.ust  not !  " 

"  O  sir,  for  pity's  sake ! "  She  seized  his  hand  as  she 
spoke. 

He  -^dthdi'ew  it,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Then  I  don't  like  you  !  "  she  burst  out,  "  and  I'll  never 
come  to  your  church  no  more  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  so  rashly,  Tess.'^ 
Perhaps  it  will  be  just  the  same  to  him  if  you  don't  ? 
.  Will  it  be  just  the  same  ?     Don't,  for  God's  sake,  speak 


u 


108  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

as  saint  to  sinner,  but  as  yon  yom\self  to  me  myself — poor 
me ! " 

How  tlie  vicar  reconciled  his  answer  with  the  strict  no- 
tions he  snpposed  himself  to  hold  on  these  subjects  it  is 
beyond  a  layman's  power  to  tell,  though  not  to  excuse. 
Somewhat  moved,  he  said  in  this  case  also  ; 

"It  will  be  just  the  same." 

So  the  baby  was  carried  in  a  small  deal  box,  under  an 
ancient  woman's  shawl,  to  the  churchyard  that  night,  and 
buried  by  lantern-hght,  at  the  cost  of  a  shilling  and  a  pint 
of  beer  to  the  sexton,  in  that  shabby  corner  of  God's  allot- 
ment where  He  lets  the  nettles  grow,  and  where  all  unbap- 
tized  infants,  notorious  drunkards,  suicides,  and  others  of 
the  conjecturally  damned  are  laid.  In  spite  of  the  untoward 
surroundings,  however,  Tess  bravely  made  a  httle  cross  of 
two  laths  and  a  piece  of  string,  and  having  bound  it  mth 
flowers,  she  stuck  it  up  at  the  head  of  the  gi\ave  one  even- 
ing when  she  could  enter  the  churchyard  without  being 
seen,  putting  at  the  foot  also  a  bunch  of  the  same  flowers 
in  a  little  jar  of  water  to  keep  them  ahve.  What  matter 
was  it  that  on  the  outside  of  the  jar  the  eye  of  mere  ob- 
servation noted  the  words  "Keelwell's  Marmalade"?  The 
eye  of  maternal  affection  did  not  see  them  in  its  vision  of 
higher  things. 


XV. 

"By  experience,"  says  Roger  Ascham,  "we  find  out  a 
short  way  by  a  long  wandering."  Not  seldom  that  long 
wandering  unfits  us  for  further  travel,  and  of  what  use  is 
our  experience  to  us  then  ?  Tess  Durbeyfield's  experience 
was  of  this  incapacitating  kind.  At  last  she  had  learned 
what  to  do  ;  but  who  would  noAV  accept  her  doing  ? 

If  before  going  to  the  D'Urbervilles'  she  had  rigorously 


MAIDEN  NO  MORE.  109 

moved  under  the  guidance  of  sundiy  gnomic  texts  and 
phrases  known  to  her  and  to  the  world  in  general,  no 
doubt  she  would  never  have  been  imposed  on.  But  it  had 
not  been  in  Tess's  power — nor  is  it  in  anybody's  power — to 
feel  the  whole  truth  of  golden  opinions  when  it  is  possible 
to  profit  by  them.  She — and  how  many  more — might  have 
ironically  said  to  God  with  Saint  Augustine,  "  Thou  hast 
counselled  a  better  course  than  Thou  hast  permitted." 

She  remained  in  her  father's  house  during  the  winter 
months,  plucking  fowls,  or  cramming  turkeys  and  geese,  or 
making  clothes  for  her  sisters  and  brothers  out  of  some 
finery  which  D'Urberville  had  given  her,  and  which  she  had 
put  by  with  contempt.  Apply  to  him  she  would  not.  But 
she  would  often  clasp  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  muse 
when  she  was  supposed  to  be  working  hard. 

She  philosophically  noted  dates  as  they  came  past  in  the 
revolution  of  the  year ;  the  disastrous  night  of  her  undo- 
ing at  Trantridge,  mth  its  dark  background  of  The  Chase ; 
also  the  dates  of  the  baby's  bu^tli  and  death ;  also  her  own 
birthday ;  and  every  other  day  individualized  by  incidents 
in  which  she  had  taken  some  share.  She  suddenly  thought 
one  afternoon,  w^lien  looking  in  the  glass  at  her  fairness, 
that  there  was  yet  another  date,  of  greater  importance  to 
her  than  those :  that  of  her  own  death,  when  all  these 
charms  would  have  disappeared ;  a  day  which  lay  sly  and 
unseen  among  all  the  other  days  of  the  year,  giving  no 
sign  or  sound  w^lien  she  annually  passed  over  it ;  but  not 
the  less  surely  there.  When  was  it?  Wliy  did  she  not 
feel  the  chill  of  each  yearly  encounter  with  such  a  cold  re- 
lation ?  She  had  Jeremy  Tayloi^s  thought  that  some  time 
in  the  future  those  who  had  known  her  would  say,  "  It  is 
the  — th,  the  day  that  poor  Tess  Durbeyfield  died " ;  and 
there  would  be  nothing  singular  to  their  minds  in  the 
statement.  Of  that  dav,  doomed  to  be  her  terminus  in 
time  through  all  the  ages,  she  did  not  know  the  place  in 
month,  Aveek,  season,  or  year. 


110  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Almost  at  a  leap  Tess  thus  changed  from  simple  girl  to 
complex  woman.  Symbols  of  reflectiveness  passed  into  her 
face,  and  a  note  of  tragedy  at  times  into  her  voice.  Her 
eyes  grew  larger  and  more  eloquent.  She  became  what 
would  have  been  called  a  fine  creature ;  her  aspect  was  fair 
and  arresting ;  her  soul  that  of  a  woman  whom  the  turbu- 
lent experiences  of  the  last  year  or  two  had  quite  failed  to 
demoralize.  But  for  the  world's  opinion  those  experiences 
would  have  been  simply  a  liberal  education. 

She  had  held  so  aloof  of  late  that  her  trouble,  never  gen- 
erally known,  was  nearly  forgotten  in  Marlott.  But  it  be- 
came e\ddent  to  her  that  she  could  never  be  really  comfort- 
able again  in  a  place  which  had  seen  the  collapse  of  her 
family's  attempt  to  "claim  kin" — and,  through  her,  even 
closer  union — with  the  i-ich  D'Urbervilles.  At  least  she 
could  not  be  comfortable  there  till  long  years  should  have 
obliterated  her  keen  consciousness  of  it.  Yet  even  now 
Tess  felt  the  pulse  of  hopeful  life  still  warm  within  her  j 
she  might  be  happy  in  some  nook  which  had  no  memories. 
To  escape  the  past  and  all  that  appertained  thereto  was  to 
annihilate  it,  and  to  do  that  she  would  have  to  get  away. 

Was  once  lost  always  lost  really  true  of  chastity?  she 
would  ask  lierseK.  She  might  prove  it  false  if  she  could 
veil  bygones.  The  recuperative  power  which  pervaded  or- 
ganic nature  was  surely  not  denied  to  maidenhood  alone. 

She  waited  a  long  time  without  finding  opportunity  for 
a  new  departure.  A  particularly  fine  spring  came  round, 
and  the  stir  of  germination  was  almost  audible  in  the  buds ; 
it  moved  her,  as  it  moved  the  wild  animals,  and  made  her 
passionate  to  go.  At  last,  one  day  in  early  May,  a  letter 
reached  her  from  an  old  friend  of  her  mother's,  to  whom 
she  had  addressed  inquiries  long  before — a  dairyman  whom 
she  had  never  seen — that  a  skilful  milkmaid  was  required 
at  his  dairj^-house,  and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  have  her 
for  the  summer  months,  if  she  had  found  nothing  to  do  in 
the  interim. 


IVIAIDEN  NO   MORE.  Ill 

It  was  not  quite  so  far  off  as  could  have  been  wished ; 
but  it  was  probably  far  enough,  her  radius  of  movement 
and  repute  having  been  so  small.  To  persons  of  limited 
spheres,  miles  are  as  geographical  degrees,  parishes  as 
counties,  counties  as  provinces  and  kingdoms. 

On  one  point  she  was  resolved :  there  should  be  no  more 
D'Urberville  air-castles  in  the  di-eams  and  deeds  of  her  new 
life.  She  would  be  the  dairymaid  Tess,  and  nothing  more. 
Her  mother  knew  Tess's  feeling  on  this  point  so  weU, 
though  no  words  had  passed  between  them  on  the  subject, 
that  she  never  alluded  to  the  knightly  ancestry  now. 

Yet  such  is  human  inconsistency  that  one  of  the  interests 
of  the  new  place  to  her  was  the  accidental  virtue  of  its  lying 
near  her  forefathers'  country  (for  they  were  not  Blakemore 
men,  though  her  mother  was  Blakemore  to  the  bone). 
The  dairy  called  Talbothays,  for  which  she  was  bound, 
stood  not  remotelv  from  some  of  the  former  estates  of  the 
D'Urber\dlles,  near  the  great  family  vaults  of  her  grand- 
dames  and  their  powerful  husbands.  She  would  be  able  to 
look  at  them,  and  think  not  only  that  D'Urber\alle,  like 
Babylon,  had  fallen,  but  that  the  indi\ddual  innocence  of  a 
humble  descendant  could  lapse  as  silently.  All  the  while 
she  wondered  if  any  strange  good  thing  might  come  of  her 
being  in  her  ancestral  land ;  and  some  spirit  within  her  rose 
automatically  as  the  sap  in  the  twigs.  It  was  unexpended 
youth,  sm'ging  up  anew  after  its  temporary  check,  and 
bringing  with  it  hope,  and  the  invincible  instinct  towards 
self -delight. 


n^5t  tbe  %Mvn. 
THE    RALLY. 


XVI. 

On  a  thyme-scented,  bird-singing  morning  in  May,  be- 
tween two  and  three  years  after  the  retnrn  from  Trantridge 
— two  silent  reconstructive  years  for  Tess  Dnrbeyfield — 
she  left  her  home  for  the  second  time. 

Having  packed  up  her  luggage  so  that  it  could  be  sent 
to  her  later,  she  started  in  a  hired  trap  for  the  little  town 
of  Stourcastle,  through  w^hich  it  was  necessary  to  pass  on 
her  jom^ney,  noAV  in  a  direction  almost  opposite  to  that  of 
her  first  adventuring.  On  the  curve  of  the  nearest  hill  she 
looked  back  regretfully  at  Marlott  and  her  father's  house, 
although  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  get  away. 

Her  kindred  dwelling  there  would  probably  continue 
their  daily  lives  as  heretofore,  with  no  great  diminution  of 
pleasure  in  their  consciousness,  although  she  would  be  far 
off,  and  they  deprived  of  her  smile.  In  a  few  days  the 
children  would  engage  in  their  games  as  merrily  as  ever, 
without  the  sense  of  any  gap  left  by  her  departure.  This 
leaving  of  the  younger  childi'en  she  had  decided  was  for 
the  best;  were  she  to  remain  they  would  probably  gain 
less  good  by  her  precepts  than  harm  by  her  example. 

She  went  through  Stourcastle  without  pausing,  and  on- 
ward to  a  junction  of  highwaj^s,  where  she  could  await  a 
carrier's  van  that  ran  to  the  southwest ;  for  the  railways 
which  engirdled  this  interior  tract  of  country  had  never 


THE   RALLY.  113 

yet  struck  across  it.  While  waiting,  however,  there  came 
along  a  farmer  in  his  spring  cart,  driving  approximately  in 
the  dii-ection  that  she  mshed  to  pursue ;  though  he  was  a 
stranger  to  her  she  accepted  his  offer  of  a  seat  beside  him, 
ignoring  that  its  motive  was  a  mere  tribute  to  her  counte- 
nance. He  was  going  to  Weatherbury,  and  by  accompany- 
ing him  thither  she  could  walk  the  remainder  of  the  dis- 
tance instead  of  travelling  in  the  van  by  way  of  Casterbridge. 

Tess  did  not  stop  at  Weatherbury,  after  this  long  drive, 
further  than  to  make  a  slight  nondescript  meal  at  noon  at 
a  cottage  to  which  the  farmer  recommended  her.  Thence 
she  started  on  foot,  basket  in  hand,  to  reach  the  wide  up- 
land of  heath  di\dding  this  district  from  the  low-hdng 
meads  of  a  farther  valley  in  which  the  dairy  stood  that 
was  the  aim  and  end  of  her  day's  pilgrimage. 

Tess  had  never  before  visited  this  part  of  the  country, 
and  yet  she  felt  akin  to  the  landscape.  Not  so  very  far  to 
the  left  of  her  she  could  discern  a  dark  patch  in  the  scenery, 
which  inquiry  confii-med  her  in  supposing  to  be  trees,  mark- 
ing the  environs  of  Kingsbere — in  the  church  of  wliicli  par- 
ish the  bones  of  her  ancestors — her  useless  ancestors — lay 
entombed. 

She  had  no  admiration  for  them  now ;  she  almost  hated 
them  for  the  dance  they  had  led  her ;  not  a  thing  of  all 
that  had  been  theu's  did  she  retain  but  the  old  seal  and 
spoon.  "Pooh — I  have  as  much  of  mother  as  father  in 
me  !  "  she  said.  '•  All  my  prettiness  comes  from  her,  and 
she  was  onlv  a  dairvmaid." 

The  journey  over  the  intervening  uplands  and  lowlands 
of  Egdon,  when  she  reached  them,  was  a  more  troublesome 
walk  than  she  had  anticipated,  the  distance  being  actually 
but  a  fev*"  miles.  In  two  hours,  after  sundry  wi'ong  turn- 
ings, she  found  herself  on  a  summit  commanding  the  long- 
sought-for  vale,  the  valley  of  the  Great  Dailies,  the  valley 
in  which  milk  and  butter  grew  to  rankness,  and  were  pro- 
duced more  profusely,  if  less  delicately,  than  at  her  home 

8 


114  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

' — the  verdaut  plain  so  well  watered  by  the  river  Var  or 
Froom. 

It  was  intrinsically  different  from  the  Vale  of  Little 
Dailies,  Blackmoor  Vale,  which,  save  duiing  her  disastrous 
sojourn  at  Trantridge,  she  had  exclusively  known  till  now. 
The  world  was  di'a^vn  to  a  larger  pattern  here.  The  en- 
closures numbered  fifty  acres  instead  of  ten,  the  farmsteads 
were  more  extended,  the  groups  of  cattle  formed  tribes 
hereabout;  there  only  families.  These  myriads  of  cows 
stretching  under  her  eyes  from  the  far  east  to  the  far  west 
outnumbered  any  she  had  ever  seen  at  one  glance  before. 
The  green  lea  was  speckled  as  thickly  with  them  as  a  canvas 
by  Van  Alsloot  or  Sallaert  with  bm-ghers.  The  rij^e  hue 
of  the  red  and  dun  kine  absorbed  the  evening  sunlight, 
which  the  white-coated  anmials  returned  to  the  eye  in  rays 
ahnost  jiazzhng,  even  at  the  distant  elevation  on  which  she 
stood. 

The  bird's-eye  perspective  before  her  was  not  so  luxuri- 
antly beautiful,  perhaps,  as  that  other  one  which  she  knew 
so  well ;  yet  it  was  more  cheering.  It  lacked  the  intensely 
blue  atmosphere  of  the  rival  vale,  and  its  heavy  soils  and 
scents ;  the  new  air  was  clearer,  more  ethereal,  buoyant, 
bracing.  The  river  itself,  which  noui'ished  the  grass  and 
cows  of  these  renowned  dames,  flowed  not  like  the  streams 
in  Blackmoor.  Those  were  slow,  silent,  tinged,  flowing  over 
beds  of  mud  into  which  the  incautious  wader  might  sink 
and  vanish  unawares.  The  Froom  waters  were  clear  as 
the  piu'e  River  of  Life  shown  to  the  Evangelist,  rapid  as 
the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  with  pebbly  shallows  that  prattled 
to  the  sky  all  day  long.  There  the  water-flower  was  the 
lilv ;  the  crowfoot  here. 

Either  the  change  in  the  quality  of  the  au'  from  heavy 
to  light,  or  the  sense  of  being  amid  new  scenes  where 
there  were  no  invidious  eyes  upon  her,  sent  up  her  spirits 
wonderfully.  Her  hopes  mingled  with  the  sunshine  in  an 
ideal  photosphere  which  surrounded  her  as  she  bounded 


THE   RALLY.  115 

along  against  the  soft  south  wind.  She  heard  a  pleasant 
voice  in  every  breeze,  and  in  every  bird's  note  seemed  to 
lurk  a  joy. 

Her  face  had  latterly  changed  with,  changing  states  of 
mind.  It  might  have  been  said  to  be  continually  fluctu- 
ating between  beauty  and  ordinariness,  according  as  the 
thoughts  were  gay  or  grave.  One  day  she  was  pink  and 
flawless;  another  she  was  pale  and  tragical.  When  she 
was  i^ink  she  was  feeling  less  than  when  she  was  pale; 
her  more  j)erfect  beauty  accorded  with  her  less  elevated 
mood ;  her  more  intense  mood  with  her  less  perfect  beauty. 
It  was  her  best  face,  ph^'sically,  that  was  now  set  against 
the  south  wdnd. 

The  irresistible,  universal,  automatic  tendency  to  find 
enjoyment,  which  pervades  all  h±e,  from  the  meanest  to 
the  highest,  had  at  length  mastered  her,  no  longer  counter- 
acted by  external  pressures.  Being  even  now  only  a  young 
and  immature  woman,  one  who  mentally  and  sentimentally 
had  not  finished  growing,  it  was  impossible  that  any  event 
should  have  left  upon  Tess  an  impression  that  was  not  at 
least  capable  of  transmutation. 

And  thus  her  spirits  and  her  thankfulness  and  her  hopes 
rose  higher  and  higher.  She  tried  several  baUads,  but 
found  them  inadequate ;  till,  recollecting  the  book  that  her 
eyes  had  so  often  wandered  over  of  a  Sunday  morning  be- 
fore she  had  eaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  she  hummed, 
"  O  ye  Sun  and  Moon ;  O  ye  Stars ;  ye  Green  Things  upon 
the  Earth ;  ye  Fowls  of  the  Au- ;  Beasts  and  Cattle ;  O  all 
ye  Children  of  Men;  bless  ye  the  Lord,  praise  Him  and 
magnify  Him  forever." 

She  suddenly  stopped  and  murmm'ed,  ''But  perhaps  I 
don't  quite  know  the  Lord  as  yet." 

And  probably  the  half -unconscious  rhapsody  was  a  Pan- 
theistic utterance  in  a  Monotheistic  falsetto ;  women,  whose 
chief  com^Danions  are  the  forms  and  forces  of  outdoor  Na- 
ture, retain  in  their  souls  far  more  of  the  Pagan  instincts 


116  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

of  their  remoter  forefathers  than  of  the  systematized  relig- 
ions taught  their  race  at  later  date.  However,  Tess  found 
at  least  approximate  expression  for  her  feelings  in  the  old 
Benedicite  that  she  had  lisped  from  infancy;  and  it  was 
enough.  Such  high  contentment  with  such  a  shght  and  in- 
itial performance  as  that  of  having  started  towards  a  means 
of  independent  living  was  a  part  of  the  Durbeyfield  tem^ 
perament.  Tess  really  wished  to  walk  uprightly  ;  to  seek 
out  whatsoever  things  were  true  and  honest,  and  of  good 
report,  wdiile  her  father  did  nothing  of  the  kind ;  but  she 
resembled  him  with  being  content  with  immediate  and 
small  achievements,  and  in  having  no  mind  for  laborious 
effort  towards  such  petty  monetary  and  social  advancement 
as  could  alone  be  effected  by  a  family  so  hea\dly  handi- 
capped as  the  once  knightly  D'Urber\illes  were  now. 

There  was,  of  course,  the  energy  of  her  mother's  unex- 
pended family,  as  well  as  the  natural  energy  of  Tess's  years 
and  frame,  rekindled  after  the  experience  which  had  so 
overwhelmed  her  for  the  time.  Let  the  truth  be  toJd — 
women  do  as  a  rule  live  through  such  humiliations,  and 
regain  their  spirits,  and  again  look  about  them  mth  an  in- 
terested eye.  Wliile  there's  life  there's  hope,  is  a  conviction 
not  so  entirelv  unkno^wn  to  the  "deceived "as  some  amiable 
theorists  would  have  us  believe. 

Tess  Durbeyfield,  in  good  heart,  and  full  of  zest  for  life, 
descended  the  Egdon  slopes  lower  and  lower  towards  the 
dairy  of  her  pilgrimage. 

The  marked  difference,  in  the  final  particular,  between 
the  rival  vales  now  showed  itself.  The  secret  of  Black- 
moor  was  best  discovered  from  the  heights  around ;  to  read 
aright  the  valley  before  her  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
descend  into  its  midst.  Wlien  Tess  had  accomplished  this 
feat  she  found  herself  to  be  standing  on  a  carpeted  level, 
which  stretched  to  the  east  and  west  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach. 

The  river  had  stolen  from  the  higher  tracts  and  brought 


THE   RALLY.  117 

in  particles  to  the  vale  all  this  horizontal  landj  and  now, 
exhausted,  aged,  and  attenuated,  lay  serpentining  along 
through  the  midst  of  its  former  spoils. 

Not  quite  sure  of  her  direction,  Tess  stood  still  upon  the 
hemmed  expanse  of  verdant  flatness,  like  a  fly  on  a  billiard- 
table  of  indefinite  length,  and  of  no  more  consequence  to 
the  situation  than  that  fly.  The  sole  effect  of  her  presence 
upon  the  placid  valley  so  far  had  been  to  excite  the  mind 
of  a  solitary  heron,  which,  after  descending  to  the  ground 
not  far  from  her  path,  stood,  ^Yith.  neck  erect,  looking  at 
her. 

But  suddenly  there  arose  from  all  parts  of  the  lowland  a 
prolonged  and  repeated  call — 

"  Waow !  waow !  waow  !  '^ 

From  the  farthest  east  to  the  farthest  west  the  cries 
spread  as  if  by  contagion,  accompanied  in  some  cases  by 
the  barking  of  a  dog.  It  was  not  the  expression  of  the 
valley's  consciousness  that  beautiful  Tess  had  arrived,  but 
the  ordinary  announcement  of  milking-time — haK-past 
four  o'clock,  when  the  dairjanen  set  about  getting  in  the 
cows. 

The  red  and  white  herd  nearest  at  hand,  which  had  been 
phlegmatically  w^aiting  for  the  call,  now  trooped  towards 
the  steading  in  the  background,  their  gi-eat  bags  of  milk 
swinging  under  them  as  they  walked.  Tess  followed  slowly 
in  their  rear,  and  entered  the  barton  by  the  open  gate 
through  which  they  had  entered  before  her.  Long,  thatched 
sheds  stretched  round  the  enclosure,  their  slopes  encrusted 
with  vivid  green  moss,  and  their  eaves  supported  by  wooden 
posts  rubbed  to  a  glassy  smoothness  by  the  flanks  of  in- 
finite cows  and  calves  of  bygone  years,  now  passed  to  an 
obli\don  almost  inconceivable  in  its  profundity.  Between 
the  posts  were  ranged  the  milkers,  each  exhibiting  herself 
at  the  present  moment  to  an  eye  in  the  rear  as  a  circle  on 
two  stalks,  down  the  centre  of  which  a  smtch  moved  pend- 
ulum-w4se  j  while  the  sun,  lowering  itself  behind  this  pa- 


118  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

tient  row,  threw  their  shadows  accurately  iiiv/ards  upon  the 
wall.  There  and  thus  it  threw  shadows  of  these  obscure 
and  unstudied  figures  every  evening  with  as  much  care 
over  each  contour  as  if  it  had  been  the  profile  of  a  Court 
beauty  on  a  palace  wall;  copied  them  as  diligently  as  it 
had  copied  Olympian  shapes  on  marble  facades  long  ago, 
or  the  outlines  of  Alexander,  Caesar,  and  the  Pharaohs. 

They  were  the  less  restful  cows  that  were  stalled.  Those 
that  would  stand  still  of  their  own  free  \\dll  were  milked  in 
the  middle  of  the  yard,  where  many  of  such  better-behaved 
ones  stood  waiting  now — all  prime  milchers,  such  as  were 
seldom  seen  out  of  this  vallev,  and  not  alwavs  within  it ; 
nourished  by  the  succulent  feed  which  the  w^ater-meads 
supplied  at  this  prime  season  of  the  year.  Those  of  them 
that  were  spotted  with  white  reflected  the  sunshine  in  daz- 
zling brilliancy,  and  the  ]3olished  brass  knobs  on  their  horns 
glittered  with  something  of  military  displaj^  Their  large- 
veined  udders  hung  ponderous  as  sand-bags,  the  teats  stick- 
ing out  like  the  legs  of  a  gipsy's  crock ;  and,  as  each  animal 
lingered  for  her  tm-n  to  arrive,  the  milk  fell  in  drops  to  the 
ground. 


XVII. 

The  dairymaids  and  men  had  flocked  down  from  their 
cottages  and  out  of  the  dairy-house  mth  the  arrival  of  the 
cows  from  the  meads ;  the  maids  walking  in  pattens,  not 
on  account  of  the  weather,  but  to  keep  their  shoes  above 
the  mulch  of  the  barton.  Each  gui  sat  down  on  her  three- 
legged  stool,  her  face  sideways,  her  right  cheek  resting 
against  the  cow,  and  looked  musingly  along  the  animal's 
flank  at  Tess  as  she  approached.  The  male  milkers,  with 
hat-brims  turned  doAvn,  resting  on  their  foreheads  and  gaz- 
ing on  the  ground,  did  not  observe  her. 


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THE  RALLY.  HO 

One  of  these  was  a  sturdy  middle-aged  man — whose  long 
Avliite  "pinner"  was  somewhat  finer  and  cleaner  than  the 
wi'aps  of  the  others,  and  whose  jacket  underneath  had 
a  presentable  marketing  aspect — the  master-dair}^nan,  of 
whom  she  was  in  quest,  his  double  character  as  a  working 
milker  and  butter-maker  here  diuing  six  days,  and  on  the 
seventh  as  a  man  in  shining  broadcloth  in  his  family  pew 
at  church,  being  so  marked  as  to  have  inspired  a  rhyme : 

DairjTnaii  Dick 

All  the  week — 

On  Sundays  Mr.  Richard  Crick. 

Seeing  Tess  standing  at  gaze,  he  went  across  to  her. 

The  maioritv  of  dairvmen  have  a  cross  manner  at  milk- 
ing-time,  but  it  happened  that  Mr.  Crick  was  glad  to  get  a 
new  hand — for  the  days  were  busy  ones  now — and  he  re- 
ceived her  warmly ;  inquiring  for  her  mother  and  the  rest 
of  the  family  (though  this  as  a  matter  of  form  mainly,  for 
he  really  had  quite  forgotten  Mrs.  Durbeyfleld's  existence  till 
reminded  of  the  fact  by  her  daughter's  letter). 

"  O — ay,  as  a  lad  I  knowed  your  mother  very  well,"  he 
said,  terminatively.  "  And  I  heard  of  her  marriage,  though 
I've  never  heard  of  her  since.  And  a  aged  woman  of 
ninety  that  used  to  live  nigh  here,  but  is  dead  and  gone 
long  ago,  once  told  me  that  the  family  yer  mother  married 
into  in  Blackmoor  Yale  came  originally  from  these  parts, 
and  that  'twere  a  old  ancient  race  that  had  all  but  perished 
oif  the  earth — though  the  new  generations  didn't  know  it. 
But,  Lord,  T  took  no  notice  of  the  old  woman's  rambhngs, 
not  I." 

"  Oh  no — it  is  nothing,"  said  Tess. 

Then  the  talk  was  of  business  only. 

"You  can  milk  'em  clean,  mv  maidv?  I  don't  want  mv 
cows  going  azew  at  this  time  o'  ye'ar." 

She  reassured  Mm  on  that  point,  and  he  surveyed  her  up 


120  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

and  dowu.  She  had  been  staying  indoors  since  the  autumn, 
and  her  complexion  had  grown  delicate. 

''  Quite  sure  you  can  stand  it?  'Tis  comfortable  enough 
here  for  rough  folkj  but  we  don't  hve  in  a  cowcumber 
frame." 

She  declared  that  she  could  stand  it,  and  her  zest  and 
willingness  seemed  to  win  him  over. 

''Well,  I  suppose  you'll  want  a  dish  o'  tay,  or  victuals  of 
some  sort,  hey  ?  Not  yet  ?  Well,  do  as  you  like  about  it. 
But  faith,  if  'twas  I,  I  should  be  as  dry  as  a  kex  wi'  travel- 
ling so  far." 

''  I'll  begin  milking  now,  to  get  my  hand  in,"  said  Tess. 

She  di-ank  a  little  milk  as  temporary  refreshment,  to  the 
surprise — indeed,  shght  contempt — of  Daii'3'man  Crick,  to 
whose  mind  it  had  apparent^  never  occurred  that  milk 
was  good  as  a  beverage.  "  Oh,  if  ye  can  swaller  that,  be 
it  so,"  he  said,  indifferently,  while  holding  up  the  pail  that 
she  sipped  from.  "  'Tis  what  I  hain't  touched  for  years — 
not  I.  Rot  the  stuff ;  it  would  lie  in  my  innerds  like  lead. 
You  can  try  your  hand  upon  she,"  he  pursued,  nodding  to 
the  nearest  cow.  "  Not  but  what  she  do  milk  rather  hard. 
We've  hard  ones  and  w^'ve  easv  ones,  like  other  folks. 
However,  you'll  find  out  that  soon  enough." 

When  Tess  had  changed  her  bonnet  for  a  hood,  and  was 
really  on  her  stool  under  the  cow,  and  the  milk  was  squirt- 
ing from  her  fists  into  the  pail,  she  appeared  to  feel  that 
she  really  had  laid  a  new  foundation  for  her  future.  Tlie 
conviction  bred  serenity,  her  pulse  slowed,  and  she  was  able 
to  look  about  her. 

The  milkers  formed  quite  a  little  battalion  of  men  and 
maids,  the  men  operating  on  the  hard-teated  animals,  the 
maids  on  the  kindlier  natures.  It  was  a  larsre  dairv. 
There  were  more  than  a  Imndred  milchers  under  Crick's 
management,  all  told ;  and  of  the  herd  the  master-dairy- 
man milked  six  or  eight  with  his  own  hands,  unless  away 
from  home.     These  were  the  cows  that  milked  hardest  of 


THE  RALLY.  121 

all;  for  his  journey-milkmen  being  more  or  less  casually 
hired,  he  would  not  entrust  this  half-dozen  to  their  treat- 
ment, lest,  from  indifference,  they  should  not  milk  them 
clean ;  nor  to  the  maids,  lest  they  should  fail  in  the  same 
way  for  lack  of  finger-grip ;  with  the  result  that  in  course 
of  time  the  cows  would  ''go  azew" — that  is,  dry  up.  It 
was  not  the  loss  for  the  moment  that  made  slack  milking 
so  serious,  but  that  with  the  decline  of  demand  there  came 
decline,  and  idtimately  cessation,  of  supply. 

After  Tess  had  settled  down  to  her  cow  there  was  for  a 
time  no  talk  in  the  barton,  and  not  a  sound  interfered  with 
the  puiT  of  the  mi  Ik- jets  into  the  numerous  pails,  except  a 
momentary  exclamation  to  one  or  other  of  the  beasts  request- 
ing her  to  turn  round  or  stand  still.  The  only  movements 
were  those  of  the  milkers'  hands  up  and  down  and  the 
swing  of  the  cows'  tails.  Thus  they  all  worked  on,  encom- 
passed by  the  vast  flat  mead  which  extended  to  either  slope 
of  the  valley — a  level  landscape  compounded  of  old  land- 
scapes long  forgotten,  and,  no  doubt,  differing  in  character 
very  gi*eatly  from  the  landscape  they  composed  now. 

"  To  my  thinking,"  said  the  dairyman,  rising  suddenly 
from  a  cow  he  had  just  finished  off,  and  snatching  uj)  his 
three-legged  stool  in  one  hand  and  the  pail  in  the  other, 
moving  on  to  the  next  hard-yielder  in  his  \dcinity ;  "to  my 
thinking,  the  cows  don't  gie  down  their  milk  to-day  as 
usual.  Upon  my  Ufe,  if  Winker  do  begin  keeping  back 
hke  this,  she'll  not  be  worth  going  under  by  midsummer !  " 

'''Tis  because  there's  a  new  hand  come  among  us,"  said 
Jonathan  Kail.     ''  I've  noticed  such  things  afore." 

"  To  be  sui*e.     It  may  be  so.     I  didn't  think  o't." 

"  I've  been  told  that  it  goes  up  into  their  horns  at  such 
times,"  said  a  dairvmaid. 

''  Well,  as  to  going  up  into  their  horns,"  replied  Dairy- 
man Crick,  dubiously,  as  though  even  witchcraft  might  be 
limited  by  anatomical  possibihties,  "  I  couldn't  say ;  I  cer- 
tainly could  not.     But  as  nott  cows  will  keep  it  back  as 


122  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

well  as  the  horned  ones,  I  don't  quite  agree  to  it.  Do  ye 
knoAY  that  riddle  about  the  nott  cows,  Jonathan  f  Why 
do  nott  cows  give  less  milk  in  a  year  than  horned  1 " 

"  I  don't !  "  interposed  the  milkmaid.     "  Why  do  they  ? " 

"  Because  there  hain't  so  many  of  'em,"  said  the  dairy- 
man. "Howsomever,  these  gam'sters  do  certainly  keep 
back  their  milk  to-day.  Folks,  we  must  lift  up  a  stave  or 
two — that's  the  only  cui'e  for't." 

Songs  were  often  resorted  to  in  dairies  hereabout  as  an 
enticement  to  the  cows  when  they  showed  signs  of  with- 
holding their  usual  }ield ;  and  the  band  of  milkers  at  tliis 
request  burst  into  melody — in  purely  business-like  tones,  it 
is  true,  and  with  no  great  spontaneity ;  the  result,  accord- 
ing to  their  own  belief,  being  a  decided  improvement  dnr- 
ing  the  song's  continuance.  When  they  had  gone  through 
fourteen  or  fifteen  verses  of  a  cheerful  ballad  about  a  mur- 
derer who  was  afraid  to  go  to  bed  in  the  dark  l^ecause  he 
saw  certain  brimstone  flames  around  him,  one  of  the  male 
milkers  said :  "I  msh  singing  on  the  stoop  didn't  use  up 
so  much  of  a  man's  mnd !  You  should  get  your  harp,  sir  5 
not  but  what  a  fiddle  is  best." 

Tess,  who  had  given  ear  to  this,  thought  the  word*  were 
addressed  to  the  dairyman,  but  she  was  wrong.  A  reph^, 
in  the  shape  of  "  Why  ? "  came,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  belly 
of  a  dun  cow  in  the  stalls ;  it  had  been  spoken  by  a  milker 
behind  the  animal,  whom  she  had  not  hitherto  perceived. 

"  Oh  yes ;  there's  nothing  like  a  fiddle,"  said  the  dairy- 
man. ''  Though  I  do  think  that  bulls  are  more  moved  by 
a  tune  than  cows — at  least,  that's  my  experience.  Once 
there  was  a  old  man  over  at  Mellstock — William  Dewj  by 
name — one  of  the  family  that  used  to  do  a  good  deal  of 
business  as  tranters  over  there,  Jonathan,  do  ye  mind  ? — 
I  knowed  the  man  })y  sight  as  well  as  I  know  my  own 
brother,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  Well,  this  man  was  a- 
coming  home  along  from  a  wedding  where  he  had  been 
playing  his  fiddle,  one  fine  moonlight  night,  and  for  sliort- 


THE  RALLY.  123 

ness'  sake  lie  took  a  cut  across  Forty-acres,  a  field  lying  tliat 
way,  where  a  bull  was  out  to  gi'ass.  The  bull  seed  William 
and  took  after  liiin,  liorns  aground,  begad ;  and  though 
William  runned  his  best,  and  hadn't  much  drink  in  him 
(considering  'twas  a  wedding,  and  the  folks  well  off),  he 
found  he'd  never  reach  the  fence  and  get  over  in  time  to 
save  himself.  Well,  as  a  last  thought,  he  pulled  out  his 
fiddle  as  he  runned,  and  struck  up  a  jig,  tui^ning  to  the  bull 
as  he  played,  and  backing  towards  the  corner.  The  bull 
softened  down,  and  stood  still,  looking  hard  at  WilHam 
Dewy,  who  fiddled  on  and  on ;  till  a  sort  of  a  smile  stole 
over  the  bull's  face.  But  no  sooner  did  WiUiam  stop 
his  playing  and  turn  to  get  over  hedge,  than  the  bull 
would  stop  his  smiling,  and  low^er  his  horns  and  step  for- 
rard.  Well,  William  had  to  turn  about  and  play  on,  willy- 
nilly  5  and  'twas  only  three  o'clock  in  the  world  and  'a 
knowed  that  nobody  would  come  that  way  for  hours,  and 
he  so  leery  and  tired  that  'a  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Wlien 
he'd  scraped  tiU  about  four  o'clock  he  felt  that  he  verily 
would  have  to  give  over  soon,  and  he  said  to  himself, 
'  There's  only  this  last  tune  between  me  and  eternal  welfare. 
Heaven  save  me,  or  I'm  a  done  man.'  Well,  then  he  called 
to  mind  how  he'd  seed  the  cattle  kneel  o'  Christmas  Eves  in 
the  dead  o'  the  night.  It  was  not  Christmas  Eve  then,  but 
it  came  into  his  head  to  play  a  trick  upon  the  buU.  So  he 
broke  into  the  'Ti\dty  Hymn,  just  as  at  Christmas  carol- 
singing;  when,  lo  and  behold,  down  went  the  bull  on  his 
bended  knees,  in  his  ignorance,  just  as  if  'twere  the  true 
'TivitvniMit  and  hour.  As  soon  as  his  horned  friend  were 
down,  William  tm^ned,  clinked  off  like  a  long-dog,  and 
jumped  safe  over  hedge,  before  the  praying  bull  had  got 
on  his  feet  again  to  take  after  him.  William  used  to 
say  that  he'd  seen  a  man  look  a  fool  a  good  many  times, 
but  never  such  a  fool  as  that  buU  looked  when  he  found 
his  pious  feelings  had  been  played  upon,  and  'twas  not 
Christmas  Eve —    Yes,  WiUiam  De^vy,  that  was  the  man's 


124  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

name;  and  I  can  tell  ye  to  a  foot  where  he's  a-lying  in 
Mellstock  Churchyard  at  this  very  moment — just  between 
the  second  yew-tree  and  the  north  aisle.'' 

"It's  a  cmious  story;  it  carries  us  back  to  mediaeval 
times,  w^ien  faith  was  a  living  thing.''  The  remark,  singu- 
lar for  a  dairy-yard,  was  murmured  by  the  voice  behind  the 
dun  cow :  but  as  nobodv  understood  the  reference  no  notice 
was  taken,  except  that  the  narrator  seemed  to  think  it 
might  imply  scepticism  as  to  his  tale. 

"  Well,  'tis  quite  true,  sir,  whether  or  no.  I  knowed  the 
man  well." 

"Oh  yes;  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  person  be- 
hind the  dun  cow. 

Tess's  attention  was  thus  attracted  to  the  daiiyman's  in- 
terlocutor, of  whom  she  could  see  but  the  merest  jiatch, 
owing  to  his  burning  his  head  so  persistently  in  the  flank 
of  the  milcher.  She  could  not  understand  why  he  should 
be  addressed  as  "  Sir  "  even  by  the  dairyman  himself.  But 
no  explanation  was  discernible ;  he  remained  under  the  dun 
cow  long  enough  to  have  milked  three,  uttering  a  private 
ejaculation  now  and  then,  as  if  he  could  not  get  on. 

"Take  it  gentle,  sir;  take  it  gentle,"  said  the  dairjTnan. 
"  'Tis  knack,  not  strength,  that  does  it." 

"So  I  find,"  said  the  other,  standing  up  at  last  and 
stretching  his  arms.  "I  think  I  have  finished  her,  how- 
ever, though  she  made  my  fingers  ache." 

Tess  could  then  see  him  at  full  length.  He  wore  the 
ordinary  white  pinner  and  leather  leggings  of  a  dairy-farmer 
when  milking,  and  his  boots  were  clogged  with  the  mulch 
of  the  yard ;  but  this  was  all  his  local  livery.  Beneath  it 
was  something  educated,  reserved,  subtle,  sad,  differing. 

But  the  details  of  his  corporeal  aspect  she  could  not 
readily  observe,  so  much  was  her  mind  arrested  by  the 
discovery  that  he  was  one  whom  she  had  seen  before. 
Such  vicissitudes  had  Tess  passed  through  since  that  time 
that  for  a  moment  she  could  not  remember  where  she  had 


THE   RALLY.  125 

seen  liimj  and  tlien  it  flashed  upon  her  that  he  was  the 
pedestrian  who  had  joined  in  the  club-dance  at  Mario tt — 
the  passing  stranger  who  had  come  she  knew  not  whence, 
had  danced  with  others  but  not  with  her,  had  shghtingly 
left  her  and  gone  on  his  way  mth  his  friends. 

The  flood  of  memories  brought  back  by  this  revival  of 
an  incident  dating  from  a  tune  anterior  to  her  troubles 
produced  a  momentary  dismay  lest,  recognizing  her  also, 
he  should  by  some  means  discover  her  stoiy.  But  it  passed 
away  when  she  found  no  sign  of  remembrance  in  him.  She 
saw  by  degrees  that  since  their  first  and  only  encounter 
his  mobile  face  had  gro\^m  more  thoughtful,  and  had  ac- 
quired a  young  man's  shapely  mustache  and  beard — the 
latter  of  the  palest  straw-color  where  it  began  upon  his 
cheeks,  and  deepening  to  a  warm  bro^\^l  farther  from  its 
root.  Under  his  milking-pinner  and  leggings  he  wore  a 
dark  velveteen  jacket,  woollen  trousers,  and  a  starched 
white  shirt.  Without  the  milking-gear,  nobody  could  have 
guessed  what  he  was.  He  might  mth  equal  probability 
have  been  an  eccentric  landowner  or  a  gentlemanly  plough- 
man. That  he  was  but  a  novice  at  dairy-work  she  had 
realized  in  a  moment,  from  the  time  he  had  spent  upon  the 
milldng  of  one  cow. 

Meanwhile,  many  of  the  milkmaids  had  said  to  one  an- 
other, "  How  pretty  she  is !  "  with  something  of  real  gen- 
erosity and  admu'ation,  though  with  a  half  hope  that  the 
auditors  would  deny  the  assertion — which,  strictly  speaking, 
they  might  have  done,  prettiness  being  but  an  inexact  defi- 
nition of  what  struck  the  eye  in  Tess.  When  the  milking 
was  finished  for  the  evening  they  straggled  indoors,  where 
Mrs.  Crick,  the  dairyman's  mfe — who  was  too  respectable 
to  go  out  milking  herself,  and  wore  a  hot  stuff  go"wn  in 
warm  weather  because  the  dairymaids  wore  prints — was 
giving  an  eye  to  the  leads  and  things.  Only  two  or  three 
of  the  maids,  Tess  learnt,  slept  in  the  dairy-house  besides 
herself,  most  of  the  helpers  going  to  then'  homes.     She 


126  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

saw  nothing  at  suj^per-tinie  of  the  superior  milker  who  had 
commented  on  the  story,  and  asked  no  questions  about  him, 
the  remainder  of  the  evening  being  occupied  in  arranging 
her  place  in  the  bed-chamber.  It  was  a  large  room  over  the 
milk-house,  some  thii-ty  feet  long ;  the  sleeping  cots  of  the 
other  three  indoor  milkmaids  being  in  the  same  apartment. 
They  were  blooming  young  women,  and,  except  one,  rather 
older  than  herself.  By  bedtime  Tess  was  thoroughly  tu-ed, 
and  fell  asleep  inmiediately. 

But  one  of  the  gii'ls  who  occupied  an  adjoining  bed  was 
more  wakeful  than  Tess,  and  would  insist  upon  relating  to 
the  latter  various  particulars  of  the  homestead  into  which 
she  had  just  entered.  The  gii'ls  whispered  words  mingled 
mth  the  shades,  and,  to  Tess's  drowsy  mind,  they  seemed 
to  be  generated  by  the  darkness  in  which  they  floated. 

^'  Mr.  Angel  Clare — he  that  is  learning  milking,  and  that 
plays  the  harp — never  says  much  to  us.  He  is  a  pa'son's 
son,  and  is  too  much  taken  up  wi'  his  own  thoughts  to  notice 
girls.  He  is  the  dairyman's  pupil — learning  farming  in 
aU  its  branches.  He  has  learnt  sheep-farming  at  another 
place,  and  he's  now  mastering  dairy-w^ork.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  is 
quite  the  gentleman-born.  His  father  is  the  Reverent  Mr. 
Clare  at  Emminster — a  good  many  miles  from  here." 

"O — I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  her  companion,  noAV 
awake.     "  A  very  earnest  clergyman,  is  he  not  ? " 

^'  Yes,  that  he  is — the  earnestest  man  in  all  Wessex,  they 
say — the  last  of  the  old  Low  Church  sort,  they  tell  me — for 
all  about  here  be  what  they  call  High.  All  his  sons,  except 
oiu'  Mr.  Clare,  be  made  pa'sons  too." 

Tess  had  not  at  this  hour  the  curiositv  to  ask  whv  the 
present  Mr.  Clare  was  not  made  a  parson  like  his  brethren, 
and  gi'adually  fell  asleep  again,  the  words  of  her  informant 
coming  to  her  along  with  the  smell  of  the  cheeses  in  the 
adjoining  cheese-loft,  and  the  dripping  of  the  whey  from 
the  wrings  downstau'S. 


THE  RALLY,  127 


XVIII. 

Angel  Clare  rises  out  of  the  past  not  altogether  as  a 
distinct  figure,  but  as  an  appreciative  voice,  a  long  regard 
of  fixed,  abstracted  eyes,  and  a  mobility  of  mouth  somewhat 
too  small  and  delicately  lined  for  a  man's,  though  mth  an 
unexpectedly  firm  close  of  the  lower  hp  now"  and  then; 
enough  to  do  away  with  any  suggestion  of  indecision. 
Nevertheless,  something  nebulous,  preoccupied,  vague,  in  his 
bearing  and  regard,  marked  him  as  one  who  probably  had 
no  very  definite  aim  or  concern  about  his  material  future. 
Yet  as  a  lad  people  had  said  of  him  that  he  was  one  who 
might  do  anything  if  he  tried. 

He  was  the  A^oungest  son  of  his  father,  a  poor  parson  at 
the  other  end  of  the  county,  and  had  arrived  at  Talbothays 
Dairy  as  a  six  months'  pupil,  after  going  the  romid  of  some 
other  farms,  his  object  being  to  acquu^e  a  practical  skill  in 
the  various  processes  of  farming,  with  a  view  either  to  the 
Colonies  or  the  tenm*e  of  a  home-farm,  as  circmnstances 
might  decide. 

His  entry  into  the  ranks  of  the  agricidturists  and  breeders 
was  a  step  in  the  young  man's  career  wliich  had  been  an- 
ticipated neither  by  hhnseK  nor  by  others. 

Mr.  Clare  the  elder,  whose  first  wife  had  died  and  left 
him  a  daughter,  married  a  second  late  in  life.  Tliis  lady 
had  somewhat  unexpectedly  brought  him  three  sons,  so 
that  between  Angel,  the  youngest,  and  his  father  the  \T.car, 
there  seemed  to  be  almost  a  missing  generation.  Of  these 
boys  the  aforesaid  Angel,  the  child  of  his  old  age,  was  the 
only  son  who  had  not  taken  a  University  degree,  though 
he  was  the  single  one  of  them  whose  early  promise  might 
have  done  full  justice  to  an  academical  training. 

Some  year  or  so  before  Angel's  appearance  at  the  Marlott 
dance,  on  a  day  when  he  had  left  school  and  was  pm-suing 


128  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

his  studies  at  home,  a  parcel  came  to  the  \dcarage  from  tho 
local  bookseller's,  directed  to  the  Reverend  James  Clare. 
The  vicar  having  opened  it  and  found  it  to  contain  a  book, 
read  a  few  pages ;  whereupon  he  jumped  up  from  his  seat 
and  went  straight  to  the  shop  with  the  book  under  his  arm. 

"Wliy  has  this  been  sent  to  my  house?"  he  asked, 
peremptorily,  holding  up  the  volume. 

''  It  was  ordered,  sir." 

'^  Not  by  me,  or  any  one  belongmg  to  me,  I  am  happy  to 
sav." 

The  shopkeeper  looked  into  his  order-book.  ^'  Oh,  it  has 
been  misdirected,  su-,"  he  said.  ^'  It  was  ordered  by  Mr. 
Angel  Clare,  and  should  have  been  sent  to  him." 

Mr.  Clare  winced  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  He  went 
home  pale  and  dejected,  and  called  Angel  into  his  study. 
"  Look  into  this  book,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you 
know  about  it  ? " 

^'  I  ordered  it,"  said  Angel,  simply. 

''What  for?" 

"  To  read." 

" How  can  you  think  of  reading  it?" 

"  How  can  I  f  Why,  it  is  a  system  of  philosophy.  There 
is  no  more  moral,  or  even  religious,  work  published." 

"  Yes — moral  enough ;  I  don't  deny  that.  But  reUgious  ! 
— and  for  yoUj  who  intend  to  be  a  minister  of  the  Gos- 
pel !  " 

"  Since  you  have  alluded  to  the  matter,  father,"  said  the 
son,  with  anxious  thought  upon  his  face,  "  I  should  hke  to 
say,  once  for  aU,  that  I  should  prefer  not  to  take  Orders  in 
the  Church.  I  fear  I  could  not  conscientiouslv  do  so.  I 
love  the  Church  as  one  loves  a  parent.  I  shall  always  have 
the  warmest  affection  for  her.  There  is  no  institution  for 
wliose  history  I  have  a  deeper  admiration ;  but  I  cannot 
honestly  be  ordained  her  minister,  as  my  brothers  are, 
while  she  refuses  to  liberate  her  mind  from  an  untenable 
redemptive  theolatry." 


THE   RALLY.  129 

It  had  never  occurred  to  the  straightforward  and  simple- 
minded  vicar  that  one  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood  could 
come  to  this.  He  was  stultified,  shocked,  paralyzed.  And 
if  Angel  were  not  going  to  enter  the  Church,  what  was  the 
use  of  sending  him  to  Cambridge  f  The  University  as  a 
step  to  anything  but  ordination  seemed,  to  this  man  of  fixed 
ideas,  a  preface  without  a  volume.  He  was  a  man  not  merely 
religious,  but  devout  5  a  fii'm  believer — not  as  the  phrase  is 
now  elusively  construed  by  theological  thimble-riggers  in 
the  Chui-ch  and  out  of  it,  but  in  the  old  and  ardent  sense 
of  the  Evangelical  school  ]  one  who  could 

Indeed  opine 
That  the  Eternal  and  Divine 
Did,  eighteen  centuries  ago 
In  very  truth  .   .  . 

Angel's  father  tried  argument,  persuasion,  entreaty. 

"No,  father;  I  cannot  under^^Tite  Article  Four  (leave 
alone  the  rest),  taking  it  4n  the  literal  and  grammatical 
sense'  as  required  by  the  Declaration;  and  therefore  I  can't 
be  a  parson,"  said  Angel.  "  My  whole  instinct  in  matters 
of  religion  is  towards  reconstruction ;  to  quote  your  favorite 
Epistle  to  the  Hebrews,  ^  the  removing  of  those  things  that 
are  shaken,  as  of  things  that  are  made,  that  those  things 
which  cannot  be  shaken  mav  remain.' " 

His  father  grieved  so  deeply  that  it  made  Angel  quite 
ill  to  see  him.  "What  is  the  good  of  your  mother  and 
me  economizing  and  stinting  ourselves  to  give  you  a  Uni- 
versity education,  if  it  is  not  to  be  used  for  the  honor  and 
glory  of  God  ? "  his  father  repeated. 

"Why,  that  I  may  put  it  to  other  uses,  father,"  pleaded 
Angel. 

Perhaps  if  Angel  had  persevered  he  might  have  gone  to 
Cambridge  like  his  brothers.  But  the  vicar's  Adew  of  that 
seat  of  learning  as  a  stepping-stone  to  Orders  alone  was 
quite  a  family  tradition ;  and  so  rooted  was  the  idea  in  his 


130  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

mind  that  perseverance  began  to  appear  to  the  sensitive 
son  akin  to  an  intent  to  misappropriate  a  trust,  and  wi'ong 
the  pious  heads  of  the  household,  who  had  been  and  were 
in  truth,  as  his  father  had  hinted,  compelled  to  exercise 
much  thi'if t  to  carry  out  this  uniform  plan  of  education  for 
the  tliree  young  men. 

"  I  will  do  without  Cambridge,"  said  Angel  at  last.  "  I 
feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  go  there  in  the  cii'cumstances." 

The  effects  of  this  decisive  debate  were  not  long  in  show- 
ing themselves.  He  spent  two  or  three  years  in  desultory 
studies,  undertakings,  and  meditations ;  he  began  to  e\dnce 
considerable  indifference  to  social  forms  and  observances. 
The  material  distinctions  of  rank  and  wealth  he  commend- 
ably  despised.  Even  the  "  good  old  family ''  (to  use  a  favorite 
phrase  of  a  late  local  worthy)  had  no  aroma  for  him  unless 
there  were  good  new  resolutions  in  its  rei3resentatives.  As 
a  balance  to  these  austerities,  when  he  w^ent  to  London  to 
see  what  the  world  was  like  he  was  earned  off  his  head, 
and  nearly  entrapped  by  a  woman  much  older  than  himself, 
though  luckily  he  retui-ned  not  greatly  the  worse  for  the 
experience. 

Early  association  with  country  solitudes  had  bred  in  him 
an  unconquerable  and  almost  unreasonable  aversion  to 
modern  town  life,  and  shut  him  out  from  such  success  as 
he  might  have  aspired  to  by  entering  a  mundane  jorof  ession 
in  the  impracticability  of  the  spiiitual  one.  But  something 
had  to  be  done ;  and  having  an  acquaintance  who  was 
starting  on  a  thridng  life  as  a  Colonial  farmer,  it  occurred 
to  Angel  that  this  might  be  a  lead  in  the  right  dii-ection. 
Farming — either  in  the  Colonies,  America,  or  at  home — 
farming,  at  any  rate,  after  becoming  well  qualified  for  the 
business  by  a  careful  apprenticeship — that  was  a  vocation 
which  would  probably  afford  an  independence  without  the 
sacrifice  of  what  he  valued  even  more  than  a  competency — 
intellectual  liberty. 

So  w^e  find  Angel  Clare  at  six-and-twenty  here  at  Tal- 


THE   RALLY.  131 

bothays  as  a  student  of  kine,  and,  as  there  were  no  houses 
near  at  hand  in  which  he  could  get  a  comfortable  lodging, 
a  boarder  at  the  dair\Tnan's. 

His  room  was  an  immense  attic  which  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  dauy -house.  It  could  only  be  reached  by  a 
ladder  from  the  cheese-loft,  and  had  been  closed  up  for  a 
long  time  till  he  arrived  and  selected  it  as  his  retreat. 
Here  Clare  had  plenty  of  space,  and  could  often  be  heard 
by  the  dairy-folk  pacing  up  and  down  when  the  household 
had  gone  to  rest.  A  portion  was  divided  off  at  one  end  by 
a  curtain,  behind  which  was  his  bed,  the  outer  part  being 
furnished  as  a  homely  sitting-room. 

At  fii'st  he  lived  up  above  entirely,  reading  a  good  deal, 
and  strumming  upon  an  old  harp  which  he  had  bought  at  a 
sale,  sa}T.ng  when  in  a  bitter  humor  that  he  might  have 
to  get  a  Uving  by  it  in  the  streets  some  day.  But  he  soon 
preferred  to  read  human  nature  by  takmg  his  meals  down- 
stairs in  the  general  dining-kitchen,  mth  the  daiiyman  and 
his  wife,  and  the  maids  and  men,  who  all  together  formed 
a  lively  assembly  -,  for  though  but  few  milking  hands  slept 
in  the  house,  several  joined  the  family  at  meals.  The 
longer  Clare  resided  here  the  less  objection  had  he  to  his 
company,  and  the  more  did  he  like  to  share  quarters  with 
them  in  common. 

Much  to  his  surprise,  he  took,  indeed,  a  real  delight  in 
theu'  companionship.  The  conventional  farm-folk  of  his 
imagination — personified  by  the  pitiable  dummy  known  as 
Hodge — were  obliterated  after  a  few  days'  residence.  At 
close  quarters  no  Hodge  was  to  be  seen.  At  first,  it  is  true, 
when  Clare's  intelligence  was  fresh  from  a  contrasting 
society,  these  friends  with  whom  he  now  hobnobbed  seemed 
a  little  strange.  Sitting  doT^^l  as  a  level  member  of  the 
dairyman's  household  seemed  at  the  outset  an  undignified 
proceeding.  The  ideas,  the  modes,  the  surroundings,  ap- 
peared retrogressive  and  unmeaning.  But  with  li\T-ng  on 
there,  day  after  day,  the  acute  sojourner  became  conscious 


132  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

of  a  new  aspect  in  the  spectacle.  Without  any  objective 
change  whatever,  variety  had  taken  the  place  of  monoto- 
nousness.  His  host  and  his  host's  household,  his  men  and 
his  maids,  as  they  became  intimately  known  to  Clare,  be- 
gan to  differentiate  themselves  as  in  a  chemical  process. 
The  thought  of  Pascal's  was  brought  home  to  him:  ^'A 
mesure  qu'on  a  plus  d'esprit,  on  trouve  qu'il  y  a  plus 
d'hommes  originaux.  Les  gens  du  commun  ne  trouvent 
pas  de  difference  entre  les  hommes."  The  t^^ical  and  un- 
varying Hodge  ceased  to  exist.  He  had  been  disintegrated 
into  a  number  of  varied  fellow-creatures — beings  of  many 
minds,  beings  infinite  in  difference ;  some  happ}^,  many 
serene,  a  few  depressed,  one  here  and  there  bright  even  to 
genius,  some  stupid,  others  wanton,  others  austere ;  some 
mutely  Miltonic,  some  potentially  Cromwellian ;  into  men 
who  had  private  views  of  each  other,  as  he  had  of  his 
friends ;  who  could  applaud  or  condemn  each  other,  amuse 
or  sadden  themselves  by  the  contemplation  of  each  othei-'s 
foibles  or  ^dces;  men  every  one  of  whom  walked  in  his 
o^Yn  indi^ddual  way  the  road  to  dusty  death. 

Unexpected^  he  began  to  like  the  outdoor  life  for  its 
own  sake,  and  for  what  it  brought,  apart  from  its  bearing 
on  his  own  proposed  career.  Considering  his  position,  he  be- 
came wonderfullv  free  from  the  chronic  melancholv  which 
is  taking  hold  of  the  civilized  races  ivith  the  decline  of  be- 
lief in  a  beneficent  power.  For  the  first  time  of  late  years 
he  could  read  as  his  musings  inclined  him,  without  any  eye 
to  cramming  for  a  profession,  since  the  few  farming  hand- 
books which  he  deemed  it  desirable  to  master  occupied  him 
but  little  time. 

He  grew  away  from  old  associations,  and  saw  something 
new  in  life  and  humanity.  Secondarily,  he  made  close  ac- 
quaintance witli  phenomena  which  he  had  before  known 
but  darkly — the  seasons  in  their  moods,  morning  and  even- 
ing, niglit  and  noon  in  their  temperaments,  winds  in  their 
several  dispositions,  trees,  waters  and  clouds,  shades  and 


THE   RALLY.  133 

silences,  ignes-fatui,  constellations,  and  the  voices  of  inani- 
mate tilings. 

The  early  mornings  were  still  sufficiently  cool  to  render 
a  fire  acceptable  in  the  large  room  wherein  they  break- 
fasted ;  and  by  Mrs.  Crick's  orders,  who  held  that  he  was 
too  genteel  to  mess  at  tlieii-  table,  it  was  Angel  Clare's 
custom  to  sit  in  the  yawning  chimney-corner  dming  the 
meal,  his  cup  and  saucer  and  plate  being  placed  on  a  hinged 
bracket  at  his  elbow.  The  hght  fi-om  the  long,  mde, 
mullioned  window  opposite  shone  in  upon  his  nook,  and, 
assisted  by  a  secondary  hght  of  cold  blue  quality  which 
shone  down  the  chimney,  enabled  him  to  read  there  easily 
whenever  disposed  to  do  so.  Between  Clare  and  the  win- 
dow was  the  table  at  which  his  companions  sat,  their 
munching  profiles  rising  sharp  against  the  panes ;  while  to 
the  rear  was  the  milk-house  door,  tlu'ough  which  were  visi- 
ble the  rectangular  leads  in  rows,  full  to  the  brim  mth  the. 
morning's  milk.  At  the  farther  end  the  great  churn  could 
be  seen  revolving  and  its  shp-slopping  heard — the  mo^dng 
power  being  discernible  through  the  window  in  the  form  of 
a  spu'itless  horse  walking  in  a  circle  and  driven  by  a  boy. 

For  several  days  after  Tess's  arrival  Clare,  sitting  ab- 
stractedly reading  from  some  book,  periodical,  or  piece  of 
music  just  come  by  post,  hardly  noticed  that  she  was  present 
at  table.  She  talked  so  little,  and  the  other  maids  talked 
so  much,  that  the  babble  did  not  strike  him  as  possessing 
a  new  note,  and  he  was  ever  in  the  habit  of  neglecting  the 
particulars  of  an  outward  scene  for  the  general  impression. 
One  day,  however,  when  he  had  been  conning  one  of  his 
music  scores,  and  by  force  of  imagination  was  hearing  the 
tune  in  his  head,  he  lapsed  into  listlessness,  and  the  music- 
sheet  rolled  to  the  hearth.  He  looked  at  the  fii^e  of  logs, 
mtli  its  one  flame  pirouetting  on  the  top  in  a  dpng  dance 
after  the  breakfast  cooking  and  boihng ;  and  it  seemed  to 
jig  to  his  inward  tune  5  also  at  the  two  chimney  crocks 
danghng  down  from  the  cross-bar,  plumed  with  soot  which 


134  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

quivered  to  the  same  melody ;  also  at  the  half -empty  kettle 
whining  an  accompaniment.  The  conversation  at  the  table 
mixed  in  with  his  phantasmal  orchestra  till  he  thought, 
^''  What  a  fluty  voice  one  of  those  milkmaids  has  !  I  suj)- 
pose  it  is  the  new  one.''  Clare  looked  round  upon  her, 
seated  with  the  others. 

She  was  not  looking  towards  him.  Indeed,  owing  to  his 
long  silence,  his  presence  in  the  room  was  almost  forgotten. 

"  I  don't  know  about  ghosts,"  she  was  saying ;  "  but  I  do 
know  that  our  souls  can  be  made  to  go  outside  om*  bodies 
when  we  are  alive." 

The  dairyman  turned  to  her  with  his  mouth  full,  his  eyes 
charged  with  serious  inquiry,  and  his  great  knife  and  fork 
(breakfasts  were  breakfasts  here)  planted  erect  on  the  table, 
lilie  the  beginning  of  a  gallows.  ^^What — really  now? 
And  is  it  so,  maidy  f "  he  said. 

'^  A  very  easy  way  to  feel  'em  go," continued  Tess,  "is  to 
lie  on  the  grass  at  night  and  look  straight  up  at  some  big 
bright  star;  and,  by  fixing  your  mind  upon  it,  you  mil 
soon  find  that  you  are  hundreds  and  hundreds  o'  miles 
away  from  your  body,  which  you  don't  seem  to  want  at  all." 

The  daii'jTiian  removed  his  hard  gaze  from  Tess,  and 
fixed  it  on  his  wife. 

'^Now  that's  arum  thing,  Christianner — hey?  To  think 
o'  the  miles  I've  vamped  o'  nights  these  last  thirty  year, 
com^ting,  or  trading,  or  for  doctor,  or  for  nurse,  and  yet 
never  had  the  least  notion  o'  that  till  now,  or  f eeled  my  soul 
rise  so  much  as  an  inch  above  my  shirt-collar." 

The  general  attention  being  drawn  to  her,  including  that 
of  the  dairjmian's  pupil,  Tess  flushed,  and  remarking  indif- 
ferently that  it  was  onl}^  a  fancy,  resumed  her  breakfast. 

Clare  continued  to  obsei've  her.  She  soon  finished  her 
eating,  and  having  a  consciousness  that  Clare  was  regard- 
ing her,  began  to  trace  imaginary  patterns  on  the  table- 
cloth with  her  forefinger  with  the  constraint  of  a  domestic 
animal  that  perceives  itself  to  be  watched. 


THE   RALLY.  135 

'^  What  a  fresh  and  virgin  daughter  of  Nature  that  milk- 
maid is  !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

And  then  he  seemed  to  discern  in  her  something  that 
was  familiar,  something  which  carried  him  back  into  a 
joyous  and  unforeseeing  past,  before  the  necessity  of  tak- 
ing thought  had  made  the  heavens  gray.  He  concluded 
that  he  had  beheld  her  before ;  where,  he  could  not  tell. 
A  casual  encounter  during  some  country  ramble  it  certainly 
had  been,  and  he  was  not  greatly  curious  about  it.  But 
the  circumstance  was  sufficient  to  lead  him  to  select  Tess 
in  preference  to  the  other  pretty  milkmaids  when  he  "wished 
to  contemplate  contiguous  womankind. 


XIX. 

In  general  the  cows  were  milked  as  they  presented  them- 
selves, ^dthout  fancy  or  choice.  But  certain  cows  wiR 
show  a  fondness  for  a  particular  pair  of  hands,  sometimes 
carrying  this  predilection  so  far  as  to  refuse  to  stand  at  all 
except  to  their  favorite,'  the  pail  of  a  stranger  being  un- 
ceremoniously kicked  over. 

It  was  Dairyman  Crick's  rule  to  insist  on  breaking  down 
these  partialities  and  aversions  by  constant  interchange, 
since,  in  the  event  of  a  milkman  or  maid  going  away  from 
the  daily,  he  was  other^vise  placed  in  a  difficulty.  The 
maids'  private  aims,  however,  were  the  reverse  of  the  dairy- 
man's rule,  the  daily  selection  by  each  damsel  of  the  eight 
or  ten  cows  to  which  she  had  grown  accustomed  rendering 
the  operation  on  theii*  ^villing  udders  surprisingly  easy  and 
effortless. 

Tess,  like  her  compeers,  soon  discovered  which  of  the 
cows  had  a  predilection  for  her  style  of  manipulation,  and 
her  fingers  ha\'ing  become  delicate  from  the  long  domiciliary 


136  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

imprisonments  to  which  she  had  subjected  herself  at  inter- 
vals during  the  last  two  or  three  years,  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  meet  the  milchers'  views  in  this  resj^ect.  Out 
of  the  whole  hundi^ed  and  five  there  were  eight  in  particu- 
lar— Dumpling,  Fancy,  Lofty,  Mist,  Old  Pretty,  Young 
Prett}^,  Tidy,  and  Loud — who,  though  the  teats  of  one  or  two 
were  as  hard  as  carrots,  gave  down  to  her  with  a  readiness 
that  made  her  work  on  them  a  mere  touch  of  the  fingers. 
Knowing,  however,  the  dauyman's  wish,  she  endeavored 
conscientiously  to  take  the  animals  just  as  they  came,  ex- 
cepting the  very  hard  fielders,  which  she  could  not  yet 
manage. 

But  she  soon  found  a  cui'ious  correspondence  between 
the  ostensibly  chance  position  of  the  cows  and  her  wishes 
in  this  matter,  till  at  length  she  felt  that  theii'  order  could 
not  be  the  result  of  accident.  The  daiiyman's  pupil  had 
lent  a  hand  in  getting  the  cows  together  of  late,  and  at  the 
fifth  or  sixth  time  she  turned  her  face,  as  it  rested  against 
the  cow,  full  of  sedate  inquiry  upon  him. 

"  Mr.  Clare,  you  have  ranged  the  cows  ! ''  she  said,  blush- 
ing ;  and  in  making  the  accusation  symptoms  of  a  smile 
lifted  her  upper  Up  gently  in  the  middle  in  spite  of  her,  so 
as  to  show  the  tips  of  her  teeth,  the  lower  lip  remaining 
severely  still. 

''Well — it  makes  no  difference,"  said  he.  ''You  will  al- 
wavs  be  here  to  milk  them." 

''  Do  you  think  so  ?     I  hope  I  shall.     But  I  don't  l-nowP 

She  was  angry  ^\ith  herself  afterwards,  thinking  that  he, 
not  aware  of  her  gi'ave  reasons  for  liking  this  seclusion, 
might  have  mistaken  her  meaning.  She  had  spoken  so 
earnestly  to  him,  as  if  his  presence  were  somehow  a  factor 
in  her  wish.  Her  misgiving  was  such  that  at  dusk,  when 
the  milking  was  over,  she  walked  in  the  garden  alone,  re- 
gretting that  she  had  disclosed  to  him  her  discovery  of  his 
considerateness. 

It  was  a  tyj)ical  summer  evening  in  June,  the  atmos- 


THE   RALLY.  137 

pliere  being  in  such  delicate  equilibrium  and  so  transmis- 
sive  that  inanimate  objects  seemed  endowed  with  two  or 
three  senses,  if  not  five.  There  was  no  distinction  between 
the  near  and  the  far,  and  an  auditor  felt  close  to  every- 
thing within  the  horizon.  The  soundlessness  impressed 
her  as  a  positive  entity  rather  than  as  the  mere  negation  of 
noise.     It  was  broken  by  the  strumming  of  strings. 

Tess  had  heard  those  notes  in  the  attic  above  her  head. 
Dim,  flattened,  constrained  by  their  confinement,  they  had 
never  appealed  to  her  as  now,  when  they  wandered  in  the 
still  air  with  a  stark  quality  like  that  of  nudity.  To  speak 
absolutely,  both  instrument  and  execution  were  poor ;  but 
the  relative  is  all,  and  as  she  listened,  Tess,  like  a  fasci- 
nated bii'd,  could  not  leave  the  spot.  Far  from  leaving,  she 
drew  uj)  towards  the  performer,  keeping  behmd  the  hedge 
that  he  niight  not  guess  her  presence. 

The  outskii't  of  the  garden  in  which  Tess  found  herself 
had  been  left  uncultivated  for  some  years,  and  was  now 
damp  and  rank  with  juicy  gi*ass  which  sent  up  mists  of 
pollen ;  and  tall  blooming  weeds,  emitting  offensive  smells 
— weeds  whose  red  and  yellow  and  purple  hues  formed  a 
polychrome  as  dazzKng  as  that  of  cultivated  flowers.  She 
went  stealthily  as  a  cat  through  tliis  profusion  of  growth, 
gathering  cuckoo-spittle  on  her  skirts,  brushing  off  snails 
that  were  chmbing  the  apple-tree  stems,  staining  her  hands 
with  thistle-milk  and  slug-slime,  and  rubbing  off  upon  her 
naked  arms  sticky  blights  that,  though  snow-white  on  the 
tree-trunks,  made  blood-red  stains  on  her  skin ;  thus  she 
drew  quite  near  to  Clare,  though  still  unobserved  of  him. 

Tess  was  conscious  of  neither  time  nor  space.  The  exal- 
tation which  she  had  described  as  being  i3roducible  at  will 
by  gazing  at  a  star,  came  now  without  any  determination 
of  hers  5  she  undulated  upon  the  thin  notes  as  upon  billows, 
and  theu'  harmonies  passed  like  breezes  through  her,  bring- 
ing tears  into  her  eyes.  The  floating  pollen  seemed  to  be 
his  notes  made  visible,  and  the  dampness  of  the  garden, 


138  TESS   OF   THE   D'UEBERVILLES. 

the  weeping  of  the  garden's  sensibility.  Though  near 
nightfall,  the  rank-smelling  weed-flowers  glowed  as  if  they 
would  not  close  for  intentness,  and  the  waves  of  color  mixed 
with  the  waves  of  sound. 

The  light  which  still  shone  was  derived  entkely  from  a 
large  hole  in  the  western  bank  of  cloud ;  it  was  like  a  piece 
of  the  day  left  behind  by  accident,  dusk  having  closed 
in  elsewhere.  He  concluded  his  plaintive  melody,  a  very 
simple  performance,  demanding  no  great  skill;  and  she 
waited,  thinking  another  might  be  begun.  But,  tired  of 
plajdng,  he  had  desultorily  come  round  the  fence,  and  was 
rambling  up  behind  her.  Tess,  her  cheeks  on  fire,  moved 
away  fui^tively,  as  if  hardly  moving  at  all. 

Angel,  however,  saw  her  hght  summer  gOT\Ti,  and  he 
spoke ;  his  low  tones  quite  reaching  her,  though  he  was 
some  distance  off. 

"What  makes  vou  draw  off  in  that  wav,  Tess?"  said  he. 
"  Ai'e  you  afraid  ? " 

"Oh  no,  sir.  .  .  .  That  is,  not  of  outdoor  things,  es- 
pecially just  now,  when  the  apple-blooth  is  falling,  and 
everything  so  green." 

"  But  you  have  your  indoor  fears — eh  ?  " 

"  WeU— yes,  sii\" 

"What  of?" 

"  I  couldn't  quite  say." 

"  The  milk  turning  sour  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Life  in  general  ? " 

"Yes,  sir.'' 

"  Ah — so  have  I,  very  often.  This  hobble  of  being  alive 
is  rather  serious,  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  It  is — now  you  put  it  that  way,  sir." 

"  All  the  same,  I  shouldn't  have  expected  a  young  girl 
like  you  to  see  it  so  just  yet.     How  is  it  you  do  ? " 

She  maintained  a  hesitating  silence. 

"  Come,  Tess,  tell  me  in  confidence." 


*'*WHAT   MAKES    YOU   DRAW  OFF   IN   THAT   WAY,  TESS  ?'    SAID   HE.       'ARE 

YOU    AFRAID?'  " 


THE  RALLY.  139 

She  thought  that  he  meant  what  were  the  aspects  of 
things  to  her,  and  replied  shyly :  "  The  trees  have  inquisi- 
tive eyes,  haven't  they? — that  is,  seem  as  if  they  had. 
And  the  river  says,  'Why  do  ye  trouble  me  with  your 
looks  ? '  And  you  seem  to  see  numbers  of  to-morrows  just 
all  in  a  line,  the  first  of  'em  the  biggest  and  clearest,  the 
others  getting  smaller  and  smaller  as  they  stand  farther 
away ;  but  they  all  seem  very  fierce  and  cruel  and  as  if  they 
said,  '■  I'm  coming  !  Beware  o'  me  !  Beware  o'  me  ! '  .  .  . 
But  you,  sir — //o?f,"  she  exclaimed,  mth  almost  bitter  envy ; 
"you  can  raise  up  dreams  with  j^our  music,  and  drive  all 
such  hoiTid  fancies  awav  !  " 

He  was  siu'prised  to  find  this  young  woman — who,  though 
but  a  milkmaid,  had  just  that  touch  of  rarity  about  her 
which  might  make  her  the  envied  of  her  housemates — shap- 
ing such  sad  imaginings.  But  he  was  more  surprised  when 
he  considered  that  she  was  expressing  in  her  own  native 
phrases — assisted  a  little  by  her  Sixth  Standard  training — 
feelings  which  might  almost  have  been  called  those  of  the 
age,  the  ache  of  modernism.  The  perception  aiTcsted  him 
less  when  he  reflected  that  what  are  called  advanced  ideas 
are  really  in  great  part  but  the  latest  fashion  in  definition 
— a  more  accurate  expression,  by  words  in  logy  and  ism,  of 
sensations  which  men  and  w^omen  have  vaguely  grasped  for 
centuries. 

Still,  it  was  strange  that  they  should  have  come  to  her 
while  yet  so  young ;  more  than  strange — it  was  impressive, 
mteresting,  pathetic.  Not  guessing  the  cause,  there  was 
nothing  to  remind  him  that  experience  is  as  to  intensity, 
and  not  as  to  duration.  He  did  not  know  that  Tess's  pass- 
ing corporeal  blight  had  been  her  mental  harvest. 

Tess,  on  her  part,  could  not  understand  why  a  man  of 
clerical  family  and  good  education,  and  above  physical 
want,  should  look  upon  it  as  a  mishap  to  be  alive.  For 
the  unhappy  pilgrim  herself  there  was  very  good  reason. 
But  how  could  this  admirable  and  poetic  man  ever  have 


140  TESS  OP  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

descended  into  the  Valley  of  Hiuniliation^  have  felt  with 
the  man  of  Uz — as  she  herself  had  felt  two  or  tliree  years 
ago — "  My  soul  chooseth  strangling  and  death  rather  than 
my  life.     I  loathe  it  j  I  would  not  live  alway." 

It  was  true  that  he  was  at  present  out  of  his  class.  But 
she  knew  that  was  only  because,  like  Peter  the  Great  in  a 
ship\\Tighf  s  yard,  he  was  stud}dng  what  he  wanted  to  know. 
He  did  not  milk  cows  because  he  was  obliged  to  milk  cows, 
but  because  he  was  learning  how  to  be  a  rich  and  prosperous 
dairyman,  landowner,  agricultimst,  and  breeder  of  cattle. 
He  would  become  an  American  or  Australian  Abraham, 
commanding  like  a  monarch  his  flocks  and  his  herds,  liis 
spotted  and  his  ring-straked,  his  men-servants  and  his 
maids.  At  times,  nevertheless,  it  did  seem  unaccountable 
to  her  that  a  decidedly  bookish,  musical,  thinking  young 
man  should  have  chosen  deliberately  to  be  a  farmer,  and 
not  a  clergyman,  like  his  father  and  brothers. 

Thus,  neither  ha^dng  the  clue  to  the  other's  secret,  they 
w^ere  mutually  puzzled  at  what  each  revealed,  and  awaited 
new  knowledge  of  each  other's  character  and  moods  with- 
out attempting  to  pry  into  each  other's  history. 

Every  day,  every  horn*,  brought  to  him  one  more  httle 
stroke  of  her  natiu-e,  and  to  her  one  more  of  his.  Tess 
was  trying  to  lead  a  repressed  life,  but  she  httle  recked  the 
intensitv  of  her  own  vitalitv. 

At  first  Tess  seemed  to  regard  Angel  Clare  as  an  intelli- 
gence rather  than  as  a  man.  And  as  such  she  compared 
him  with  herself ;  and  at  every  discovery  of  the  abundance 
of  his  illuminations,  of  the  immense  distance  between  her 
own  poor  mental  standpoint  and  the  unmeasurable,  Andean 
altitude  of  his,  she  became  quite  dejected,  humiUated,  dis- 
heartened from  all  further  effort  on  her  own  part  whatever. 

He  observed  her  dejection  one  day,  when  he  had  casually 
mentioned  something  to  her  about  the  pastoral  life  in  an- 


THE   RALLY.  141 

eient  Greece.    She  was  gathering  the  buds  called  "  lords  and 
ladies  "  from  the  bank  wMle  he  spoke. 

"Why  do  you  look  so  woebegone  all  of  a  sudden?"  he 
asked. 

''  Oh,  'tis  only — about  my  o\^ti  self,"  she  said,  with  a  frail 
laugh  of  sadness,  fitfully  beginning  to  peel  "  a  lady  "  mean- 
while. "  Just  a  flash  of  a  sense  of  what  might  have  been 
with  me  !  My  life  looks  as  if  it  had  been  wasted  for  want 
of  chances !  When  I  see  what  you  know,  what  you  have 
read,  and  seen,  and  thought,  I  feel  what  a  nothing  I  am ! 
I'm  like  the  poor  Queen  of  Sheba  w^ho  lived  in  the  Bible. 
There  is  no  more  spirit  in  me." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  don't  go  troubling  about  that !  Why," 
he  said,  with  some  enthusiasm,  "I  should  be  only  too  glad, 
my  dear  Tess,  to  help  you  to  anything  in  the  way  of  history, 
or  any  line  of  reading  you  would  hke  to  take  up " 

"  It  is  a  lady  again,"  interrupted  she,  holding  out  the  bud 
she  had  peeled. 

"AVliat?" 

''  I  meant  that  there  are  always  more  ladies  than  lords 
when  you  come  to  peel  them." 

"Never  mind  about  the  lords  and  ladies.  Would  you 
like  to  take  up  any  line  of  study — history,  for  example ! " 

"  Well,  sometimes  I  feel  I  don't  want  to  know  anything 
more  about  it  than  I  know  ah'eady." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  what's  the  use  of  learning  that  I  am  one  of  a 
long  row  only — finding  out  that  there  is  set  down  in  some 
old  book  somebody  just  like  me,  and  to  know  that  I  shall 
only  act  her  part ;  making  me  sad,  that's  aU.  The  best  is 
not  to  remember  that  your  nature  and  your  past  doings 
have  been  just  like  thousands  and  thousands,  and  that 
your  coming  life  and  doings  '11  be  like  thousands  and 
thousands." 

"  Wliat,  really,  then,  you  don't  want  to  learn  anything  ? " 


142  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  I  shouldn't  mind  learnino'  why — why  the  sun  shmes  on 
the  jnst  and  on  the  unjust  alike/'  she  answered,  mth  a  slight 
quaver  in  her  yoice.  "But  that  is  what  books  will  not 
teU  me !  " 

''  Tess,  fie  for  such  bitterness  !  "  Of  com-se  he  spoke  with 
a  conventional  sense  of  duty  only,  for  that  sort  of  wonder- 
ing had  not  been  unkno^\ai  to  himself  in  bygone  days. 
And  as  he  looked  at  the  unpractised  mouth  and  lips,  he 
thought  that  such  a  dew^-fresh  daughter  of  the  soil  could 
only  have  caught  up  the  sentiment  by  rote.  She  w^ent  on 
peeling  the  lords  and  ladies  till  Clare,  regarding  for  a  mo- 
ment the  wave-like  curl  of  her  lashes  as  they  drooped  with 
her  bent  gaze,  lingeringly  went  away.  When  he  was  gone 
she  stood  awhile,  thoughtfiLQy  peehng  the  last  bud ;  and 
then,  awakening  from  her  reverie,  flung  it,  and  all  the 
crowd  of  floral  nobility,  impatiently  on  the  ground,  in  an 
ebullition  of  displeasiu-e  mth  herself  for  her  niaiseries,  and 
with  a  quickening  warmth  in  her  heart  of  hearts. 

How  stupid  he  must  think  her !  In  an  access  of  hunger 
for  his  good  opinion  she  bethought  herself  of  what  she  had 
latterly  endeavored  to  forget,  so  unpleasant  had  been  its 
issues :  the  identity  of  her  family  with  that  of  the  knightly 
D'Urbervilles.  Barren  attribute  as  it  was,  disastrous  as  its 
discovery  had  been  in  many  ways  to  her,  perhaps  Mr.  Clare, 
as  a  gentleman  and  a  student  of  history,  would  respect  her 
sufficiently  to  forget  her  childish  conduct  with  the  lords 
and  ladies  if  he  knew  that  those  Purbeck-marble  and  ala- 
baster jDCople  in  Kingsbere  church  really  represented  her 
own  lineal  forefathers ;  that  she  was  no  spurious  D'Urber- 
ville,  compounded  of  money  and  ambition  like  those  at 
Trantridge,  but  true  D'Urberville  to  the  bone. 

But  before  venturing  to  make  the  revelation  poor  Tess 
indirectly  sounded  the  dairyman  as  to  its  possible  effect 
upon  Mr.  Clare,  by  asking  the  former  if  Mr.  Clare  had  any 
gi-eat  respect  for  old  county  f amihes  when  they  had  lost  all 
their  money  and  land. 


THE   RALLY.  143 

^^Mr.  Clare/'  said  the  dairyman,  emphatically,  ^4s  oue  of 
the  most  rebellest  rozums  you  ever  knowed — not  a  bit  like 
the  rest  of  his  family ;  and  if  there's  one  thing  that  he  do 
hate  more  than  another  'tis  the  notion  of  what's  called  an 
old  family.  He  says  that  it  stands  to  reason  that  old  fam- 
ihes  have  done  their  spurt  of  work  in  past  days,  and  can't 
have  anything  left  in  'em  now.  There's  the  Billetts,  and 
the  Drenkhards,  and  the  Greys,  and  the  St.  Quintins,  and 
the  Hardys,  and  the  Goulds,  who  used  to  own  the  lands  for 
miles  down  this  valley ;  you  could  buy  'em  all  up  now  for 
an  old  song  almost.  Why,  our  little  Retty  Priddle  here, 
you  know,  is  one  of  the  Paridelles — the  old  family  that 
used  to  own  lots  o'  the  lands  out  by  King's-Hintock  now 
owned  by  the  Earl  o'  Wessex,  afore  even  he  and  his  was 
heard  of.  Well,  Mr.  Clare  found  this  out,  and  spoke  quite 
scornful  to  the  poor  girl  for  days.  ^Ah  ! '  he  says  to  her, 
'■  you'll  never  make  a  good  dairymaid  !  All  your  skill  was 
used  up  ages  ago  in  Palestine,  and  you  must  lie  fallow  for 
a  thousand  years  to  git  strength  for  more  deeds  ! '  A  boy 
came  here  t'other  day  asking  for  a  job,  and  said  his  name 
was  Matt,  and  when  we  asked  him  his  surname,  he  said 
he'd  never  heard  that  'a  had  any  surname,  and  when  we 
asked  why,  he  said  he  supposed  his  folks  hadn't  been  'stab- 
Hshed  long  enough.  ^Ali !  you're  the  very  boy  I  want ! ' 
says  Mr.  Clare,  jumping  up  and  shaking  hands  wi'  en; 
'■  I've  great  hopes  of  you ; '  and  gave  him  half-a-crowu.  Oh 
no,  he  can't  stomach  old  families !  " 

After  hearing  this  caricature  of  Clare's  opinions,  poor 
Tess  was  glad  that  she  had  not  said  a  word  in  a  weak  mo- 
ment— even  though  her  family  w^as  so  unusually  old  as 
almost  to  have  gone  round  the  circle  and  become  a  new 
one.  Besides,  another  dairy-girl  was  as  good  as  she,  it 
seemed,  in  that  respect.  She  held  her  tongue  about  the 
D'Urberville  vault,  and  the  Knights  of  the  Conqueror,  one 
of  whose  names  she  bore.  A  flash  of  insight  into  Clare's 
character  suggested  to  her  that  it  was  largely  owing  to  her 


144  TESS  OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

supposed  untraditioual  newness  that  she  liad  won  mterest 
in  his  eyes. 


The  season  developed  and  matured.  Another  yeai^'s  in- 
stahnent  of  flowers,  leaves,  nightingales,  thi'ushes,  finches, 
and  other  creatures,  took  up  their  positions  where  only  a 
year  ago  others  had  stood  in  their  place,  and  they  were 
nothing  more  than  germs  and  inorganic  particles.  Rays 
straight  from  the  sunrise  drew  forth  the  buds  and  stretched 
them  into  long  stalks,  hfted  up  sap  in  noiseless  streams, 
opened  petals,  and  brought  out  scents  in  in\dsible  jets  and 
breathings. 

Dairyman  Crick's  household  of  maids  and  men  lived  on 
comfortably,  placidly,  even  merrily.  Theii*  position  was 
perhaps  the  happiest  of  all  positions  in  the  social  scale,  that 
is  to  say.  above  the  line  at  which  neediness  ends,  and  below 
the  line  at  which  the  convenances  begin  to  cramp  natural 
feeling,  and  the  stress  of  threadbare  modishness  makes  too 
little  of  enough. 

Thus  passed  the  leafy  time,  when  arborescence  seems  to 
be  the  one  thing  auned  at  out-of-doors.  Tess  and  Clare 
unconsciously  studied  each  other,  ever  balanced  on  the 
edge  of  a  passion,  yet  apparently  keeping  out  of  it.  All 
the  while  they  were  none  the  less  converging,  under  the 
force  of  iiTCsistible  law,  as  surely  as  two  streams  in  one 
vale. 

Tess  had  never  in  her  recent  life  been  so  generally  happy 
as  she  was  now,  probably  never  would  be  so  happy  again. 
She  was,  for  one  thing,  physically  and  socially  at  ease 
among  these  new  surroundings.  The  sapling  which  had 
rooted  down  to  a  poisonous  stratum  on  the  spot  of  its  sow- 
ing had  been  transplanted  to  a  deeper  sod.     Moreover  she. 


THE  RALLY.  145 

and  Clare  also,  stood  as  yet  on  the  debatable  land  between 
predilection  and  love,  where  no  profundities  have  been 
reached,  no  reflections  have  set  in,  awkwardly  inquiring 
"  Wliither  does  this  new  current  tend  to  carry  me  t  what 
does  it  mean  to  my  future  ?  how  does  it  stand  towards  my 
past  ? '' 

Tess  was  the  merest  ideal  phenomenon  to  Angel  Clare 
as  3^et — a  rosy,  warming  apparition,  which  had  hardly  ac- 
quh'ed  the  attribute  of  persistence  in  his  consciousness.  So 
he  allowed  his  mind  to  be  occupied  with  her,  yet  would 
not  own  his  preoccupation  to  be  more  than  a  philosopher's 
regard  of  an  exceedingly  novel,  fresh,  and  interesting  speci- 
men of  womankind. 

They  met  continually;  they  could  not  help  it.  They 
met  daily  in  that  strange  and  solemn  interval  of  time,  the 
twilight  of  the  morning,  in  the  violet  or  pink  dawn ;  for 
it  was  necessary  to  rise  early,  so  very  early,  here.  Milking 
was  done  betimes ;  and  before  the  milking  came  the  skim- 
ming, which  began  at  a  little  past  three.  It  usually  fell  to 
the  lot  of  some  one  or  other  of  them  to  wake  the  rest,  the 
fii'st  one  being  aroused  by  an  alarm-clock ;  and  as  Tess  was 
the  latest  arrival,  and  they  soon  discovered  that  she  could 
be  depended  upon  not  to  sleep  through  the  alarm  as  the 
others  did,  this  task  was  thrust  most  frequently  upon  her. 
No  sooner  had  the  hour  of  three  struck  and  whizzed  than 
she  left  her  room  and  ran  to  the  daiiyman's  door ;  then  up 
the  ladder  to  Angel's,  calling  liim  in  a  loud  whisper ;  then 
woke  her  fellow-milkmaids.  Bv  the  time  that  Tess  was 
di'essed,  Clare  was  downstairs  and  out  in  the  humid  air ; 
the  remaining  maids  and  the  dairymen  usually  gave  them- 
selves another  turn  on  the  pillow,  and  did  not  appear  till  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later. 

The  gray  half-tones  of  daybreak  are  not  the  gray  haK- 

tones  of  the  day's  close,  though  the  degTce  of  their  shade 

may  be  the  same.     In  the  twilight  of  the  morning  Hght 

seems  active,  darkness  passive ;  in  the  t'^^light  of  evening 
10 


146  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

it  is  the  darkness  wliicli  is  active  and  crescent,  and  tlie  light 
which  is  the  drowsy  reverse. 

Being  so  often — possibly  not  always  by  chance — the  iii'st 
two  persons  to  get  np  at  the  dairy-honse,  they  seemed  to 
themselves  the  first  persons  np  of  all  the  world.  In  these 
early  days  of  her  residence  here  Tess  did  not  skim,  but 
went  out-of-doors  at  once  after  rising,  where  he  was  gener- 
ally awaiting  her.  The  spectral,  half -compounded,  aqueous 
light  which  pervaded  the  open  mead  impressed  them  with 
a  feehng  of  isolation,  as  if  they  were  Adam  and  Eve.  At 
this  dim,  inceptive  stage  of  the  day,  Tess  seemed  to  Clare 
to  exhibit  a  dignified  largeness,  both  of  disposition  and 
physique,  and  ahnost  regnant  power — possibly  because  he 
knew  that  at  that  preternatural  time  hardly  any  woman  so 
well  endowed  in  person  as  she  was  hkely  to  be  walking  in 
the  open  air  mthin  the  boundaries  of  his  horizon  5  very 
few  in  all  England.  Fail'  v»^omen  are  usually  asleep  at  mid- 
summer da^^ais.  She  was  close  at  hand,  and  the  rest  were 
nowhere. 

The  mixed,  singular,  luminous  gloom  in  which  they 
walked  along  together  to  the  spot  where  the  cows  lay  often 
made  him  think  of  the  ResuiTCction  hour.  He  httle  thought 
that  the  Magdalen  might  be  at  his  side.  Whilst  aU  the 
landscape  was  in  neutral  shade,  his  companion's  face,  which 
w^as  the  focus  of  his  eyes,  rising  above  the  mist  stratum, 
seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  phosphorescence  upon  it.  She 
looked  ghostly,  as  if  she  were  merely  a  soul  at  large.  In 
reality  her  face,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  had  caught  the 
cold  gleam  of  day  from  the  northeast ;  his  own  face,  though 
he  did  not  think  of  it,  wore  the  same  aspect  to  her. 

It  was  then,  as  has  been  said,  that  she  impressed  him 
most  deeply.  She  was  no  longer  the  milkmaid,  but  a  vis- 
ionary essence  of  woman — a  whole  sex  condensed  into  one 
typical  form.  He  called  her  Artemis,  Demeter,  and  other 
fanciful  names,  half-teasingly,  which  she  did  not  like  be- 
cause she  did  not  understand  them. 


THE  RALLY.  147 

"  Call  me  Tess,"  slie  would  say,  askance ;  and  lie  did. 

Then  it  would  grow  lighter,  and  her  featiu'es  would  be- 
come simply  feminine ;  they  had  changed  from  those  of 
a  divinity  who  could  confer  bliss  to  those  of  a  being  who 
craved  it. 

At  these  non-human  houi'S  they  could  get  quite  close  to 
the  water-fowl.  Herons  came,  with  a  great  bold  noise  as 
of  opening  doors  and  shutters,  out  of  the  boughs  of  a  plan- 
tation which  they  frequented  at  the  side  of  the  mead ;  or, 
if  already  on  the  spot,  maintained  theu'  standing  in  the 
water  as  the  pair  walked  by,  merely  watching  them  by 
moving  their  heads  round  in  a  slow,  horizontal,  passionless 
wheel,  like  the  turn  of  puppets  by  clockwork. 

They  could  then  see  the  faint  summer  fogs  in  layers, 
woolly,  level,  and  apparently  no  tliicker  than  counterpanes, 
spread  about  the  meadows  in  detached  remnants  of  small 
extent.  On  the  gi'ay  moistm'C  of  the  gi^ass  w^ere  marks 
where  the  cows  had  lain  through  the  night — dark  islands 
of  diy  herbage  the  size  of  their  carcasses  in  the  general  sea 
of  dew.  From  each  island  proceeded  a  serpentine  trail,  by 
w^hich  the  cow  had  rambled  away  to  feed  after  getting  up, 
at  the  end  of  which  trail  they  found  herj  the  snoring 
breath  from  her  nostrils,  when  she  recognized  them,  mak- 
ing an  intenser  little  fog  of  her  o\\ti  amid  the  prevailing 
one.  Then  they  di'ove  the  animals  back  to  the  barton,  or 
sat  down  to  milk  them  on  the  sj)ot,  as  the  case  might  re- 
quire. 

Or  perhaps  the  summer  fog  was  more  general,  and  the 
meadows  lay  like  a  white  sea,  out  of  which  the  scattered 
trees  rose  like  dangerous  rocks.  Bu'ds  would  rise  through 
it  into  the  upper  radiance,  and  hang  on  the  \^dng  sunning 
themselves,  or  alight  on  the  wet  rails  subdividing  the 
meads,  which  now  shone  like  glass  rods.  Minute  diamonds 
of  moisture  from  the  mist  hung,  too,  upon  Tess's  eyelashes, 
and  di'ops  upon  her  haii*  like  seed  pearls.  When  the  day 
grew  quite  strong  and  commonplace  these  dried  off  herj 


148  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

moreover,  Tess  then  lost  lier  isolated  and  ethereal  beauty, 
and  was  again  the  dazzlingiy  fair  dairynlaid  only,  who  had 
to  hold  her  own  against  the  other  women  of  the  world. 

Al)ont  this  time  they  would  hear  Dairyman  Crick's  voice, 
lecturing  the  non-resident  milkers  for  arriving  late,  and 
speaking  sharply  to  old  Del)orah  Fyander  for  not  washing 
her  hands. 

^^  For  Heaven's  sake,  pop  th}^  hands  under  the  pump, 
Deb  !  Upon  my  soul,  if  the  London  folk  only  knowed  of 
thee  and  thy  slovenly  ways,  they'd  swaller  their  milk  and 
butter  more  mincing  than  they  do  a'ready ;  and  that's  say- 
ing a  good  deal." 

The  milking  progi^essed  till,  towards  the  end,  Tess  and 
Clare,  in  common  with  the  rest,  could  hear  the  hea\y  break- 
fast-table dragged  out  from  the  wall  in  the  kitchen  by  Mrs. 
Crick,  this  being  the  invariable  preliminary  to  each  meal ; 
the  same  horrible  scrape  accompanying  its  return  joui'ney 
when  the  table  had  been  cleared. 


XXI. 

There  was  a  great  stir  in  the  milk-house  just  after  break- 
fast. The  churn  revolved  as  usual,  but  the  butter  would 
not  come.  Whenever  this  happened  the  dairy  was  para- 
lyzed. ^'  Squish  !  squash  !  "  echoed  the  milk  in  the  great 
cylinder,  but  never  arose  the  sound  they  waited  for. 

Dairj^man  Crick  and  his  wife,  the  milkmaids  Tess,  Mar- 
ian, Retty  Priddle,  Izz  Haett,  and  the  married  ones  from 
the  cottages,  also  Mr.  Clare,  Jonathan  Kail,  old  Deborah, 
and  the  rest,  stood  gazing  hopelessly  at  the  churn;  and 
the  boy  who  kept  the  horse  going  outside  put  on  moon-like 
eyes  to  show  his  sense  of  the  situation.  Even  the  melan- 
choly horse  himself  seemed  to  look  in  at  the  window  in 
inquiring  despair  at  each  walk  round. 


TiiE  Rally.  14§ 

'^'Tis  years  siiice  I  went  to  Conjuror  Trendle's  son  in 
Egdon — years,"  said  the  dairyman,  bitterly.  "And  he  was 
nothing  to  what  his  father  had  been.  I  have  said  fifty 
times,  if  I  have  said  once,  that  I  don't  believe  in  him.  And 
I  don't  believe  in  him.  But  I  shall  have  to  go  to  'n.  Oh 
yes,  I  shall  have  to  go  to  'n,  if  this  sort  of  thing  continnys  ! '' 

Even  Mr.  Clare  began  to  feel  tragical  at  the  dail*}^nan's 
desperation. 

"  Conjm^or  Fall,  'tother  side  of  Casterbridge,  that  they 
nsed  to  call  ^  Wide-0,'  was  a  very  good  man  when  I  was  a 
boy,"  said  Jonathan  Kail.  "  But  he's  rotten  as  touchwood 
by  now." 

"  My  grandfather  used  to  go  to  Conjuror  M}Titerne,  out 
at  Owlscombe,  and  a  clever  man  'a  were,  so  I've  heard 
grandfer  say,"  continued  Mr.  Crick.  "  But  there's  no  such 
genuine  folk  about  nowadays  !  " 

Mrs.  Crick's  mind  kept  nearer  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
''  Perhaps  somebody  in  the  house  is  in  love,"  she  said,  ten- 
tatively. ''  I've  heard  tell  in  my  younger  days  that  that  will 
cause  it.  Why,  Crick — that  maid  we  knew  years  ago,  do 
ye  mind,  and  how  the  butter  didn't  come  then " 

"Ah  yes,  yes! — but  that  isn't  the  rights  o't.  It  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  love-making.  I  remember  all  about 
it — 'twas  the  damage  to  the  chiu'u."  He  turned  to  Clare. 
"Jack  Dollop,  a  'hore's-bird  of  a  feUow  we  had  here  as 
milker  at  one  time,  sir,  coui'ted  a  j^oung  woman  over  at 
Mellstock,  and  deceived  her  as  he  had  deceived  many  afore. 
But  he  had  another  sort  o'  woman  to  reckon  mth  this  time, 
and  it  was  not  the  girl  herself.  One  Holy  Thursday,  of  all 
days  in  the  almanac,  we  was  here  as  we  mid  be  now,  only 
there  was  no  chui'uing  in  hand,  when  we  saw  the  girl's 
mother  coming  up  to  the  door,  vdth  a  great  brass-mounted 
umbrella  in  her  hand  that  would  have  feUed  an  ox,  and 
saying,  '  Do  Jack  DoUop  work  here  ? — because  I  want  him  ! 
I  have  a  big  bone  to  pick  with  he,  I  can  assirre  'n  ! '  And 
some  way  behind  her  mother  walked  Jack's  young  woman, 


150  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

crying  bitterly  into  her  handkerclier.  ^  O  Lard !  here's  a 
time !  ^  said  Jack,  looking  out  o'  winder  at  ^em.  '  She'll 
murder  me!  Where  shall  I  get — where  shall  I —  Don't 
teU  her  where  I  be  ! '  and  with  that  he  scrambled  into  the 
churn  through  the  trap-door,  and  shut  himself  inside,  just 
as  the  young  woman's  mother  busted  into  the  milk-house. 
'  The  villain — where  is  he  ? '  says  she ;  ^  I'll  claw  his  face 
for  'n,  let  me  only  catch  him ! '  Well,  she  hunted  about 
everywhere,  baU}T:*agging  Jack  by  side  and  by  seam.  Jack 
lying  a'most  stifled  inside  the  churn,  and  the  poor  maid 
standing  at  the  door  crying  her  eyes  out.  I  shall  never 
forget  it,  never !  'Twould  have  melted  a  marble  stone. 
But  she  couldn't  find  him  nowhere  at  all !  " 

The  dairyman  paused,  and  one  or  two  words  of  comment 
came  from  the  listeners. 

But  Dairyman  Crick's  stories  often  seemed  to  be  ended 
when  they  were  not  really  so,  and  strangers  were  betrayed 
into  premature  interjections  of  finality,  though  old  friends 
knew  better.     The  narrator  went  on  : 

"  Well,  how  the  woman  should  have  had  the  wit  to  guess  it 
I  could  never  tell,  but  she  found  out  that  he  was  inside  that 
there  churn.  Without  saying  a  word  she  took  hold  of  the 
winch  (it  was  turned  by  hand-power  then),  and  round  she 
swung  him,  and  Jack  began  to  flop  about  inside.  '  O  Lard  ! 
stop  the  churn !  let  me  out ! '  says  he,  popping  out  his  head  -, 
^  I  shall  be  churned  into  a  pummy ! '  (He  was  a  cowardly 
chap  in  his  heart,  as  such  men  mostly  be.)  ^Not  till  j^ou 
make  amends  for  ravaging  her  trustful  innocence !  ^  says 
the  old  woman.  '■  Stop  the  churn,  you  old  w^tch  ! '  screams 
he.  '  You  call  me  old  witch,  do  ye,  you  deceiver,'  says  she, 
'  when  ye  ought  to  ha'  been  calling  me  mother-in-law  these 
last  five  months ! '  And  on  went  the  churn,  and  Jack's 
bones  rattled  round  again.  Well,  none  of  us  ventured  to 
interfere ;  and  at  last  'a  promised  to  make  it  right  by  mar- 
lying  her.  '  Yes — I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word ! '  he  said. 
And  so  it  ended  that  day.'' 


THE  RALLY.  151 

"Wliile  the  listeners  were  smiling  their  comments  there 
was  a  quick  movement  behind  theii*  backs,  and  they  looked 
round.     Tess,  pale-faced,  had  gone  to  the  door. 

"  How  warm  it  is  to-day  !  "  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

It  was  warm,  and  none  of  them  connected  her  withdrawal 
with  the  reminiscences  of  the  dairyman.  He  went  forward 
and  opened  the  door  for  her,  saying  vMi  tender  railler}^, 
''  Why,  maidy  "  (he  frequently,  with  unconscious  irony,  gave 
her  this  pet  name),  ''the  prettiest  milker  I've  got  in  my 
dairy ;  you  mustn't  get  so  fagged  as  this  at  the  first  breath 
of  summer  weather,  or  we  shall  be  finely  put  to  for  want  of 
'ee  by  dog-days ;   shan't  we,  Mr.  Clare  ? " 

''I  was  faint — and — I  think  I  am  better  out-of-doors," 
she  said,  mechanically,  and  disappeared  outside.  Fortu- 
nately for  her,  the  milk  in  the  revohdng  churn  at  that  mo- 
ment changed  its  squashing  for  a  decided  flick-flack. 

"'Tis  coming !  "  cried  Mrs.  Crick,  and  the  attention  of  all 
was  called  oif  from  Tess. 

That  fair  sufferer  soon  recovered  herseK  externally ;  but 
she  remained  much  depressed  all  the  afternoon.  When  the 
evening  milking  was  done  she  did  not  care  to  be  with,  the 
rest  of  them,  and  went  out-of-doors,  wandering  along  she 
knew  not  whither.  She  was  ^\Tetclied — oh,  so  ^\Tetched — 
at  the  perception  that  to  her  companions  the  dairyman's 
story  had  been  rather  a  humorous  narration  than  other- 
wise ;  that  none  of  them  but  herself  seemed  to  see  the  sor- 
row of  it ;  to  a  certaintv,  not  one  knew  how  cruellv  it 
touched  the  tender  place  in  her  experience.  The  evening- 
sun  was  now  ugly  to  her,  like  a  great  inflamed  wound  in 
the  sky.  Only  a  solitary  cracked-voiced  reed-sparrow 
greeted  her  from  the  bushes  by  the  river,  in  a  sad,  machine- 
like tone,  resembling  that  of  a  past  friend  whose  friend- 
ship she  had  now  outworn. 

In  these  long  June  days  the  milkmaids,  and  indeed  most 
of  the  household,  went  to  bed  at  sunset,  or  sooner,  the 
morning  work  before  milking  being  so  early  and  hea\y  at 


1S2  TESS   OF  THE   D*URBERYiLLES. 

this  time  of  full  pails.  Tess  usually  accompanied  her  fel- 
lows upstairs.  To-night,  however,  she  was  the  first  to  go 
to  their  common  chamber  j  and  she  had  dozed  when  the 
other  girls  came  in.  She  saw  them  undressing  in  the  orange 
light  of  the  vanished  sun,  which  flushed  theii'  forms  with 
its  color ;  she  dozed  again,  but  she  was  reawakened  by  their 
voices,  and  quietly  turned  her  eyes  towards  them. 

Neither  of  her  thi^ee  chamber  companions  had  got  into 
bed.  They  were  standing  in  a  group,  in  their  nightgowns, 
barefooted,  at  the  window,  the  last  red  rays  of  the  west  still 
warming  theii'  faces  and  necks,  and  the  walls  around  them. 
All  were  watching  somebody  in  the  garden  with  deep  in- 
terest, theii-  three  faces  close  together :  a  jovial  and  round 
one,  a  -psle  one  with  dark  haii",  and  a  fair  one  whose  tresses 
were  auburn. 

"  Don't  push !  You  can  see  as  well  as  I,"  said  Retty,  the 
auburn-haii'ed  and  youngest  girl,  Avithout  remo^dng  her  eyes 
from  the  mndow. 

'''Tis  no  use  for  you  to  be  in  love  with  him  any  more 
than  me,  Retty  Priddle,"  said  jolly-faced  Marian,  the  eldest, 
slyly.     "■  His  thoughts  be  of  other  cheeks  than  thine." 

Rettv  Priddle  still  looked,  and  the  others  looked  asfain. 

"  There  he  is  again !  "  cried  Izz  Huett,  the  pale  girl,  with 
dark,  damp  haii',  and  keenly  cut  lips. 

"You  needn't  say  anji^hing,  Izz,''  answ^ered  Retty.  "For 
I  seed  you  kissing  his  shade." 

"  What  did  you  see  her  doing?"  asked  Marian. 

"  Wliy,  he  w^as  standing  over  the  whey-tub  to  let  off  the 
whey,  and  the  shade  of  his  face  came  upon  the  w^all  behind, 
close  to  Izz,  who  was  standing  there  filling  a  vat.  She  put 
her  mouth  against  the  wall  and  kissed  the  shade  of  his 
mouth ;  I  seed  her,  though  he  didn't." 

"  O  Izz  Huett !  "  said  Marian. 

A  rosy  spot  came  into  the  middle  of  Izz  Iluett's  cheek. 

"  Well,  there  was  no  harm  in  it,"  she  declared,  with  at- 


THE  RALLY.  153 

/ 

tempted  coolness.  ''And  if  I  be  in  love  with  him,  so  is 
Ketty,  too ;  and  so  be  yon,  Marian,  come  to  that.'' 

Marian's  full  face  conld  not  blnsh  past  its  chronic  pink- 
ness.  '^  I !  "  she  said.  ''■  What  a  tale  !  Ah,  there  he  is  again  ! 
Dear  eyes — dear  face — dear  Mr.  Clare  !  " 

'^  There — ^^^on've  owned  it !  " 

"  So  have  yon — so  have  we  aU,"  said  Marian,  with  the 
dry  frankness  of  complete  indifference  to  opinion.  ''  It  is 
siUy  to  pretend  other\^dse  amongst  onrselves,  thongh  w^e 
need  not  own  it  to  other  folks.  I  wonld  jnst  marry  'n  to- 
morrow ! " 

"  So  wonld  I,"  miu'miu^ed  Izz  Hnett,  slowly. 

"  And  I,  too,"  whispered  the  more  timid  Ketty. 

The  hstener  grew  warm. 

"  We  can't  aU  have  him,"  said  Izz. 

'^  We  shan't,  either  of  ns,  which  is  worse  still,"  said  the 
eldest.  "  There  he  is  again !  "  They  all  three  blew  him  a 
silent  kiss. 

''Why?"  asked  Retty,  qnickly. 

"  Because  he  likes  Tess  Dnrbeyfield  best,"  said  Marian, 
lowering  her  voice.  "  I  have  watched  him  every  day,  and 
have  found  it  ont." 

There  was  a  reflective  silence. 

"But  she  don't  care  an}i:hing  for  him?"  at  length 
breathed  Retty. 

"  Well,  I  sometimes  think  that,  too." 

"  But  how  silly  aU  this  is  !  "  said  Izz  Huett,  impatiently. 
"  Of  coiu'se  he  wouldn't  marry  any  one  of  us,  or  either — 
a  gentleman's  son,  who's  going  to  be  a  great  landowner 
and  farmer  abroad !  More  likely  to  ask  us  to  come  wi'  en 
as  farm-hands  at  so  much  a  vear !  " 

One  sighed,  and  another  sighed,  and  Marian's  plump 
figure  sighed  most  of  aU.  Somebody  in  bed  hard  by  sighed 
too.  Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  Retty  Priddle,  the  pretty 
red-haired  youngest — the  last  bud  of  the  Paridelles,  so  im- 


154  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

portant  in  the  county  history.  They  watched  silently  a 
little  longer,  their  three  faces  still  close  together  as  before, 
and  the  triple  hues  of  their  hair  mingUng.  But  the  uncon- 
scious Mr.  Clare  had  gone  indoors,  and  they  saw  him  no 
more ;  and,  the  shades  beginning  to  deepen,  they  crept  into 
then'  beds.  In  a  few  minutes  they  heard  him  ascend  the 
ladder  to  his  own  room.  Marian  was  soon  snoring,  but  Izz 
did  not  drop  into  forgetfulness  for  a  long  time.  Retty 
Priddle  cried  herseK  to  sleep. 

The  deeper-passioned  Tess  was  very  far  from  sleeping 
even  then.  This  conversation  was  another  of  the  bitter 
piUs  she  had  been  obliged  to  swallow  that  day.  Scarce  the 
least  feeling  of  jealousy  arose  in  her  breast.  For  that 
matter,  she  knew  herself  to  have  the  preference.  Being 
more  finely  formed,  better  educated,  more  woman  than 
either,  she  perceived  that  only  the  shghtest  ordinary  care 
was  necessary  for  holding  her  own  in  Angel  Clare's  heart 
against  these  her  candid  friends.  But  the  gi'ave  question 
was,  ought  she  to  do  this  ?  There  was,  to  be  sure,  hardly  a 
ghost  of  a  chance  for  either  of  them,  in  a  serious  sense ; 
but  there  was,  or  had  been,  a  chance  of  one  or  the  other 
inspiring  him  mth  a  passing  fancy  for  her,  and  enjoying 
the  pleas m'e  of  his  attentions  while  he  stayed  here.  Such 
imequal  attachments  had  led  to  marriage;  and  she  had 
heard  from  Mrs.  Crick  that  Mr.  Clare  had  one  day  asked, 
in  a  laughing  way,  what  would  be  the  use  of  his  marrying 
a  fine  lady,  and  all  the  while  a  thousand  acres  of  Colonial 
pasture  to  feed,  and  cattle  to  rear,  and  corn  to  reap.  A 
farm- woman  would  be  the  onlv  sensible  kind  of  wife  for 
him.  But  whether  Mr.  Clare  had  spoken  seriously  or  not, 
why  slioidd  she,  who  could  never  conscientiously  allow  any 
man  to  marry  her  now,  and  who  had  religiously  deter- 
mined that  she  never  would  be  tempted  to  do  so,  draw  off 
Mr.  Clare's  attention  from  other  women,  for  the  brief  hap- 
piness of  sunning  herself  in  his  eyes  while  he  remained  at 
Talbothaysf 


THE   RALLY.  155 


XXII. 

They  came  downstairs  yawning  next  morning;  but 
skimming  and  milking  were  proceeded  wdth  as  usual,  and 
they  went  indoors  to  breakfast.  Dairyman  Crick  was  dis- 
covered stamping  about  the  house.  He  had  received  a 
letter,  in  which  a  customer  had  complained  that  the  butter 
had  a  twang. 

'^  And  begad,  so't  have  ! ''  said  the  daiiyman,  who  held  in 
his  left  hand  a  wooden  slice,  on  which  a  lump  of  butter 
was  stuck.     "  Yes — taste  for  yourself !  " 

Several  of  them  gathered  round  him ;  and  Mr.  Clare 
tasted,  Tess  tasted,  also  the  other  indoor  milkmaids,  one 
or  two  of  the  milking-men,  and  last  of  ah  Mrs.  Crick,  who 
came  out  from  the  waiting  breakfast  table.  There  certainly 
was  a  twang. 

The  dairyman  who  had  thrown  himself  into  abstraction 
to  better  realize  the  taste,  and  so  di\ine  the  particidar  s]3e- 
cies  of  noxious  weed  to  which  it  appertained,  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, "  'Tis  garlic  1  and  I  thought  there  wasn't  a  blade 
left  in  that  mead  !  " 

Then  aU  the  old  hands  rememl^ered  that  a  certain  dry 
mead,  into  which  a  few  of  the  cows  had  been  admitted  of 
late,  had  in  years  gone  by  spoilt  the  butter  in  the  same 
way.  The  dair3'man  had  not  recognized  the  taste  at  that 
time,  and  thought  the  butter  bewitched. 

"We  must  examine  that  mead,"  he  resinned;  'Hliis 
mustn't  continny." 

All  having  armed  themselves  with  old  pointed  knives, 
they  went  out  together.  As  the  inimical  plant  could  only 
be  present  in  very  microscopic  dimensions  to  have  escaped 
ordinary  observation,  it  seemed  rather  a  hopeless  attempt 
to  find  it  in  the  stretch  of  rich  grass  before  them.  How- 
ever, they  formed  themselves  into  line,  aU  assisting,  owing 


156  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

to  the  importance  of  tlie  search ;  tlie  daiiyman  at  the  upper 
end  with  Mr.  Clare,  who  had  vohmteered  to  help ;  then 
Tess,  Marian,  Izz  Hnett,  and  Rettv;  then  Bill  Lewell,  Jon- 
athan, and  the  married  daiiywomen — namely,  Beck  Knibbs, 
with  her  woolly  black  haii'  and  roUing  eyes,  and  flaxen 
Frances,  consumptive  from  the  winter  damps  of  the  water 
meads — who  lived  in  their  respective  cottages. 

With  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  they  crept  slowly 
across  a  strip  of  the  field,  returning  a  little  f mother  down 
in  such  a  manner  that,  when  they  should  have  finished, 
not  a  single  inch  of  the  pasture  but  would  have  fallen 
under  the  eye  of  some  one  of  them.  It  was  a  most  tedious 
business,  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  shoots  of  garhc  being 
discoverable  in  the  whole  field  5  yet  such  was  the  herb's 
pungency  that  probably  one  bite  of  it  by  one  cow  had  been 
sufficient  to  season  the  whole  dairy's  produce  for  the  day. 

Differing  one  from  another  in  natures  and  moods  so 
greatly  as  they  did,  they  yet  formed  a  curiously  uniform 
row — automatic,  noiseless ;  and  an  alien  observer  passing 
down  the  neighboring  lane  might  well  have  been  excused 
for  massing  them  as  ^'  Hodge."  As  they  crept  along,  stoop- 
ing low  to  discern  the  plant,  a  soft,  yellow  gleam  was  re- 
flected from  the  buttercups  into  their  shaded  faces,  giving 
them  an  elfish,  moonlit  aspect,  though  the  sun  was  pouring 
upon  their  backs  in  all  the  strength  of  noon. 

Angel  Clare,  who  communistically  stuck  to  his  rule  of 
taking  part  with  the  rest  in  everything,  glanced  up  now 
and  then.  It  was  not,  of  course,  by  accident  that  he  walked 
next  to  Tess. 

^^  Well,  how  are  vou  ? "  he  murmured. 

'^  Very  weU,  thank  you,  su^  she  replied,  demiu-ely. 

As  they  had  been  discussing  a  score  of  personal  matters 
only  half  an  hour  before,  the  introductory  st}^e  seemed  a 
little  superfluous.  But  they  got  no  further  in  speech  just 
then.  They  crept  and  crept,  the  hem  of  her  petticoat  just 
touching  his  foot,  and  his  elbow  sometimes  brushing  hers, 


THE  RALLY.  157 

At  last  tlie  daii'yman,  wlio  came  next,  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

''  Upon  my  soul  and  body,  this  here  stooping  do  fairly 
malvc  my  back  open  and  shut !  "  he  exclaimed,  straightening 
himself  slowly  with  an  excruciated  look  till  quite  upright. 
^'And  you,  maidy  Tess,  you  wasn't  well  a  day  or  two  ago — 
this  will  make  yom'  head  ache  finely.  Don't  do  any  more, 
if  you  feel  fainty ;  leave  the  rest  to  finish  it.'' 

Dairyman  Crick  withdi'ew,  and  Tess  dropped  behind. 
Mr.  Clare  also  stepped  out  of  line,  and  began  privateering 
about  for  the  weed.  When  she  found  him  near  her,  her 
very  tension  at  what  she  had  heard  the  night  before  made 
her  the  first  to  speak. 

''■  Don't  they  look  pretty  ? "  she  said. 

^^Whof" 

"  Izzy  Huett  and  Retty." 

Tess  had  moodilv  decided  that  either  of  these  maidens 
would  make  a  good  farmer's  wife,  and  that  she  ought  to 
recommend  them,  and  obsciu'e  her  own  wretched  charms. 

''  Pretty  ?  Well,  yes,  they  are  pretty  girls — fresh-looking. 
I  have  often  thought  so.'^ 

"  Though,  poor  things,  prettiness  won't  last  long." 

^'  Oh  no,  unfortunately." 

^'  Thev  be  excelleut  dair^-women." 

'^  Yes ;  though  not  better  than  you." 

^'  They  skim  better  than  I." 

^' Do  they?" 

Clare  remained  observing  them — not  Tvdthout  theii'  ob- 
serving him. 

"  She  is  coloring  up,"  continued  Tess,  heroically. 

''Who?" 

"  Retty  Priddle." 

''O!     Whvisthat?" 

'*'  Because  you  are  looking  at  her." 

SeK-sacrificing  as  her  mood  might  be,  Tess  could  not 
well  go  fui-ther  and  say,  ''  Marry  one  of  them,  if  you  really 


158  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

do  want  a  dairywoman  and  not  a  lady ;  and  don't  tliink  of 
marrying  me."  She  followed  Dairyman  Crick,  and  had  the 
mournful  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  Clare  remained  behind. 

From  this  day  she  forced  herself  to  take  pains  to  avoid 
him — never  allomng  herself,  as  formerly,  to  remain  long 
in  his  company,  even  if  their  juxtaposition  was  purely  ac- 
cidental.    She  gave  the  other  three  every  chance. 

Tess  was  woman  enough  to  realize  from  their  avowals  to 
herself  that  Angel  Clare  had  the  honor  of  all  the  dairy- 
maids in  his  keeping,  and  her  perception  of  his  care  to 
avoid  compromising  the  happiness  of  either  in  the  least 
degree  bred  a  tender  respect  in  Tess  for  what  she  deemed, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  the  self -controlling  sense  of  duty  shown 
by  him,  a  quality  which  she  had  never  expected  to  find  in 
one  of  the  opposite  sex,  and  in  the  absence  of  which  more 
than  one  of  the  simple  hearts  who  were  his  housemates 
might  have  gone  weeping  on  her  pilgrimage. 


XXIII. 

The  hot  weather  of  July  had  crept  onward  upon  them 
unawares,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  flat  vale  hung  heavy 
as  an  opiate  over  the  daiiy  folk,  the  cows,  and  the  trees. 
Hot  steaming  rains  fell  frequently,  making  the  grass  where 
the  cows  fed  yet  more  rank,  and  hindering  the  late  ha}"- 
making  in  the  other  meads. 

It  was  Sunday  morning ;  the  milking  was  done ;  the 
outdoor  milkers  had  gone  home.  Tess  and  the  other  three 
were  dressing  themselves  rapidly,  the  whole  four  having 
agreed  to  go  together  to  Mellstock  Church,  which  lay  sonu^ 
three  miles  distant  from  the  dairy-house.  She  had  now 
been  two  months  at  Talbothays,  and  this  was  her  first  ex- 
cursion. 


THE  RALLY.  159 

All  the  preceding  afternoon  and  niglit  liea\^  thnnder- 
storms  had  hissed  down  upon  the  meads,  and  washed  some 
of  the  hay  into  the  river ;  but  this  morning  the  sun  shone 
out  all  the  more  brilliantly  for  the  deluge,  and  the  air  was 
balmy  and  clear. 

The  crooked  lane  leading  from  their  otvtl  parish  to  Mell- 
stock  ran  along  the  lowest  levels  in  a  portion  of  its  length, 
and  when  the  girls  reached  the  most  depressed  spot  they 
found  that  the  result  of  the  rain  had  been  to  flood  the  lane 
over  shoe  to  a  distance  of  some  fifty  yards.  Tliis  would 
have  been  no  serious  hindrance  on  a  w^eek-day ;  they  woidd 
have  clicked  through  it  in  tlieii*  liigh  pattens  and  boots 
quite  unconcerned ;  but  on  this  day  of  vanity,  this  Sun's- 
day,  when  flesh  went  forth  to  coquet  with  flesh  while  hypo- 
critically affecting  business  with  spiritual  things ;  on  this 
occasion  for  wearing  their  white  stockings  and  thin  shoes, 
and  their  pink,  white,  and  lilac  gowns,  on  which  every 
mud-spot  would  be  \dsible,  the  pool  was  an  awkward  im- 
pediment. They  could  hear  the  chm-ch-bell  calling — as  yet 
nearly  a  mile  off. 

"  Who  would  have  expected  such  a  rise  in  the  river  in 
summer-time  !  "  said  Marian,  from  the  top  of  the  roadside 
bank  on  which  they  had  climbed,  and  were  maintaining  a 
precarious  footing  in  the  hope  of  creeping  along  its  slope 
till  they  were  past  the  pool. 

^^We  can't  get  there  anyhow,  mthout  walking  right 
thi'ough  it,  or  else  going  round  Stone  Bridge  way;  and 
that  would  make  us  so  very  late ! "  said  Retty,  pausing 
hopelessly. 

'^  And  I  do  color  up  so  hot,  walking  into  church  late,  and  all 
the  people  staring  round,"  said  Marian,  "  that  I  hardly  cool 
down  again  till  we  get  into  the  '  That-it-may-please-Thees.' " 

While  they  stood  clinging  to  the  bank  they  heard  a 
splashing  round  the  bend  of  the  road,  and  presently  ap- 
peared Angel  Clare,  advancing  along  the  lane  toAvards  them 
through  the  water. 


160  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

Four  hearts  gave  a  big  thi'ol)  simultaneously. 

His  aspect  was  probably  as  un-Sabbatarian  a  one  as  a 
dogmatic  parson's  son  often  presented,  being  attii'ed  in  his 
dairy  clothes  and  long  wading  boots,  with  a  thistle-spud  to 
finish  him  off. 

"He's  not  going  to  church/'  said  Marian. 

"  No — I  wish  he  was/'  murmured  Tess. 

Angel,  in  fact,  rightly  or  wrongly  (to  adopt  the  safe 
phrase  of  evasive  controversialists),  preferred  sermons  in 
'  stones  to  sermons  in  churches  and  chapels  on  fine  simimer 
days.  This  morning,  moreover,  he  had  gone  out  to  see  if 
the  damage  to  the  hay  by  the  flood  was  considerable  or  not. 
On  his  walk  he  observed  the  girls  from  a  long  distance, 
though  they  had  been  so  occupied  with  their  difficulties  of 
passage  as  not  to  notice  him.  He  knew  that  the  water  had 
risen  at  that  spot,  and  that  it  would  quite  check  their  prog- 
ress. So  he  had  hastened  on,  -with  a  dim  idea  of  how  he 
could  help  them — one  of  them  in  particular. 

The  rosy-cheeked,  bright-eyed  quartet  looked  so  charm- 
ing in  their  light  summer  attire,  clinging  to  the  roadside 
bank  like  pigeons  on  a  pent-roof,  that  he  stopped  a  moment 
to  regard  them  before  coming  close.  Their  gauzy  skii'ts 
had  brushed  up  from  the  gi'ass  dimng  their  promenade 
innumerable  flies  and  butterflies  which,  unable  to  escape, 
remained  caged  in  the  transparent  tissue  as  in  an  a^dary. 
Angel's  eye  at  last  fell  upon  Tess,  the  hindmost  of  the  four ; 
and,  being  full  of  suppressed  laughter  at  their  dilemma,  she 
could  not  help  meeting  his  glance  radiantly. 

He  came  beneath  them  in  the  water,  which  did  not  rise 
over  his  long  boots,  and  stood  looking  at  the  entrapped 
flies  and  butterflies. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  get  to  church  ? "  he  said  to  Marian, 
who  was  in  front,  including  the  next  two  in  his  remark, 
but  avoidhig  Tess. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  'tis  getting  late ;  and  my  colors  do  come 
up  so " 


THE  EALLY.  161 

^^  I'll  carry  you  tlu'ough  the  pool — every  Jill  of  you." 

The  whole  foui*  flushed  as  if  one  heart  beat  through 
them. 

'■^  I  think  you  can't,  sir/'  said  Marian. 

^^  It  is  the  only  way  for  you  to  get  past.  Stand  still. 
Nonsense,  you  are  not  too  hea\'y  !  I'd  carry  you  all  four 
together." 

''Now,  Marian,  attend,"  he  continued,  "and  put  your 
arms  round  my  shoulders,  so.  Now!  Hold  on.  That's 
well  done." 

Marian  had  lowered  herself  upon  his  arm  and  shoulder 
as  du'ected,  and  Angel  strode  off  with  her,  his  slim  figure, 
as  viewed  from  behind,  looking  like  the  mere  stem  to  the 
great  nosegay  suggested  by  hers.  They  disappeared  round 
the  curve  of  the  road,  and  only  his  sousing  footsteps  and 
the  top  ribbon  of  Marian's  bonnet  told  where  they  were. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  reappeared.  Izz  Huett  was  the  next 
in  order  upon  the  bank. 

''Here  he  comes/'  she  murmured,  and  they  could  hear 
that  her  Hps  were  dry  mth  emotion,  "  and  I  have  to  put 
my  arms  round  his  neck  and  look  into  his  face  as  Marian 
did." 

There's  nothing  in  that,"  said  Tess,  quickly. 
There's  a  time  for  ever}i:hing,"  continued  Izz,  unheed- 
ing.    "  A  time  to  embrace,  and  a  time  to  refrain  from  em- 
bracing ;  the  first  is  now  going  to  be  mine." 

"  Fie — it  is  Scripture,  Izz  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Izz,  "  I've  always  a'  ear  at  church  for  good 
verses." 

Angel  Clare,  to  whom  three-quarters  of  this  performance 
was  a  commonplace  act  of  kindness,  now  approached  Izz ; 
she  quietly  and  dreamily  lowered  herself  into  his  arms,  and 
Angel  methodically  marched  off  with  her.  Wlien  he  was 
heard  returning  for  the  third  time,  Retty's  throbbing  heart 
could  be  almost  seen  to  shake  her.  He  went  up  to  the  red- 
haired  girl,  and,  while  he  was  seizing  her  he  glanced  at 
11 


162  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

Tess.  His  lips  could  not  have  pronounced  more  plainly, 
'^  It  will  soon  be  you  and  I."  Her  comprehension  appeared 
in  her  face ;  she  could  not  help  it.  There  was  an  under- 
standing between  them. 

Poor  little  Retty,  though  by  far  the  lightest  weight,  was 
the  most  troublesome  of  Clare's  burdens.  Marian  had  been 
like  a  sack  of  meal,  or  dead  weight  of  plumpness  under 
which  he  had  literally  staggered.  Izz  had  ridden  sensibly 
and  calmly.     Retty  was  a  bunch  of  hysterics. 

However,  he  got  through  with  the  disquieted  creature, 
deposited  her,  and  returned.  Tess  could  see  over  the  hedge 
the  distant  three  in  a  gToup,  standing  as  he  had  placed 
them  on  the  next  rising  ground.  It  was  now  her  turn. 
She  was  embarrassed  to  discover  that  the  excitement. at  the 
proximity  of  Mr.  Clare's  breath  and  eyes,  which  she  had 
contemned  in  her  companions,  was  intensified  in  herself ; 
and  as  if  fearful  of  betraying  her  secret,  she  paltered  with 
him  at  the  last  moment. 

^^  I  may  be  able  to  clim'  along  the  bank,  perhaps,  sir — I  can 
dim'  better  than  they.     You  must  be  so  tii-ed,  Mr.  Clare  ! " 

^'  No,  no,  Tess !  "  said  he,  quickly.  And  almost  before  she 
was  aware  she  was  seated  in  his  arms  and  resting  against 
his  shoulder. 

'^  Three  Leahs  to  get  one  Rachel,"  he  whispered. 

"  They  are  better  women  than  I,"  she  replied,  magnani- 
mously sticking  to  her  resolve. 

^'  Not  to  me,"  said  Angel. 

He  felt  her  grow  warm  at  this ;  and  they  went  some 
steps  in  silence. 

^^  I  hope  I  am  not  too  heavy,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  Oh  no.  You  should  lift  Marian  !  Such  a  lump  !  You 
are  like  an  undulating  billow  warmed  by  the  sun.  And  aU 
this  fluff  of  muslin  about  you  is  the  froth." 

"  It  is  very  pretty — if  I  seem  like  that  to  you." 

'^  Do  you  know  that  I  have  undergone  three  quarters  of 
this  labor  entirely  for  the  sake  of  the  fourth  quarter  ?  " 


THE  RALLY.  163 

"  No.'' 

^^  I  did  not  expect  such  an  event  to-day." 

"  Nor  I.  .  .  .  The  water  came  up  so  sudden." 

That  the  rise  in  the  water  was  what  she  understood  him 
to  refer  to,  the  state  of  her  breathing  behed.  Clare  stood 
still,  and  inclined  his  face  towards  hers. 

"  O  Tessie  !  "  he  said,  pressing  close  against  her. 

The  gii-l's  cheeks  biu-ned  to  the  breeze,  and  she  could  not 
look  into  his  eyes  for  her  emotion.  It  reminded  Angel  that 
he  was  somewhat  unfairly  taking  advantage  of  an  acci- 
dental position,  and  he  went  no  further  T\ith  it.  No  definite 
words  of  love  had  crossed  then-  lips  as  yet,  and  suspension 
at  this  point  was  desirable  now.  However,  he  walked 
slowly,  to  make  the  remainder  of  the  distance  as  long  as 
possible ;  but  at  last  they  came  to  the  bend,  and  the  rest 
of  theu^  progress  was  in  full  view  of  the  other  three.  The 
dry  land  was  reached,  and  he  set  her  down. 

Her  friends  were  looking  with  round,  thoughtful  eyes  at 
her  and  him,  and  she  could  see  that  they  had  been  talking 
of  her.  He  hastily  bade  them  farewell,  and  splashed  back 
along  the  stretch  of  submerged  road. 

The  four  moved  on  together  as  before,  till  Marian  broke 
the  silence  by  saying,  "  No — in  all  truth,  we  have  no  chance 
against  her !  "     She  looked  joylessly  at  Tess. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  latter. 

'^  He  likes  'ee  best — the  very  best !  We  could  see  it  as 
he  brought  'ee.  He  would  have  kissed  'ee  if  you  had  en- 
couraged him  to  do  it,  ever  so  little." 

"  No,  no,"  said  she. 

The  gaiety  with  which  they  had  set  out  had  somehow 
vanished ;  and  yet  there  was  no  enmity  or  mahce  between 
them.  They  were  generous  young  souls;  they  had  been 
reared  in  the  lonely  country  nooks  where  fatalism  is  a 
strong  sentiment,  and  they  did  not  blame  her.  Such  sup- 
planting was  to  be. 

Tess's  heart  ached.     There  was  no  concealing  from  her- 


164  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

self  the  fact  that  she  loved  Angel  Clare,  perhaps  all  the 
more  passionately  from  knowing  that  the  others  had  also 
lost  their  hearts  to  him.  There  is  contagion  in  this  senti- 
ment, especially  among  women.  And  yet  that  same  hnngry 
heart  of  hers  compassionated  her  friends.  Tess's  honest 
nature  had  fought  against  this,  but  too  feebly,  and  the 
natural  result  had  followed. 

^'I  will  never  stand  in  your  way,  nor  in  the  way  of 
either  of  'ee  !  "  she  declared  to  Retty  that  night  in  the  bed- 
room (her  tears  running  down).  ^^  I  can't  help  this,  my 
dear !  I  don't  think  marrying  is  in  his  mind  at  all ;  but  if 
he  were  even  to  ask  me  I  should  refuse  him,  as  I  should 
refuse  any  man." 

"  O  !  would  you  ?    Why  ? "  said  wondering  Retty. 

"It  cannot  be.  But  I  mil  be  lA-din.  Putting  myself 
quite  on  one  side,  I  don't  think  he  will  choose  either  of  you." 

"  I  have  never  expected  it — thought  of  it ! "  moaned 
Rettv.     "  But  O  !  I  wish  I  was  dead !  " 

The  poor  child,  torn  by  a  feeling  which  she  hardly  under- 
stood, turned  to  the  two  other  girls  who  came  upstairs  just 
then. 

"  We  be  friends  with  her  again,"  she  said  to  them.  "  She 
thinks  no  more  of  his  choosing  her  than  we  do."  So  the 
reserve  went  oif,  and  they  were  confiding  and  warm. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  care  what  I  do  now,"  said  Marian,  whose 
mood  was  tuned  to  its  lowest  bass.  "  I  was  going  to  marry 
a  dairyman  at  Sticklef ord,  who's  asked  me  twice ;  but — my 
word — I  would  put  an  end  to  myself  rather'n  be  his  wife 
now !     Why  don't  ye  speak,  Izz  ? " 

"  To  confess,  then,"  said  Izz,  "  I  made  sure  to-day  that 
he  was  going  to  kiss  me  as  he  held  me ;  and  I  stayed  still 
against  his  shoulder,  hoping  and  hoping,  and  never  moved 
at  all.  But  he  did  not.  I  don't  like  biding  here  at  Talbo- 
thays  any  longer.     I  shall  go  home." 

The  air  of  the  sleeping-chamber  seemed  to  palpitate  with 
the  hopeless  passion  of  the  girls.     They  writhed  feverishly 


THE  RALLY.  165 

under  the  oppressiveness  of  an  emotion  tlirust  on  them  by 
cruel  Nature's  h\w — an  emotion  which  they  had  neither 
expected  nor  denied.  The  incident  of  the  day  had  fanned 
the  flame  that  was  biu'ning  the  inside  of  theii'  hearts  out, 
and  the  torture  was  ahnost  more  than  they  could  endiu-e. 
The  differences  which  distinguished  them  as  individuals 
were  abstracted  by  this  passion^  and  each  was  but  portion 
of  one  organism  called  sex.  There  was  so  much  frankness 
and  so  little  jealousy  because  there  was  no  hope.  Each  one 
was  a  girl  of  fail'  common  sense,  and  she  did  not  delude 
herseK  with  any  vain  conceits,  or  deny  her  love,  or  give 
herself  aii's,  in  the  idea  of  outshining  the  others.  The  full 
recognition  of  the  futility  of  their  infatuation,  from  a  social 
point  of  \dew ;  its  purposeless  beginning ;  its  seK-bounded 
outlook  J  its  lack  of  everything  to  justify  its  existence  in 
the  eye  of  civihzation  (while  lacking  nothing  in  the  eye  of 
Nature) ;  the  one  fact  that  it  did  exist  ecstasizing  them  to  a 
killing  joy — all  this  imparted  to  them  a  resignation,  a  dig- 
nity, which  a  practical  and  sordid  expectation  of  mnning 
him  as  a  husband  would  have  destroyed. 

They  tossed  and  turned  on  their  little  beds,  and  the 
cheese-A\Ting  dripped  monotonously  downstairs. 

''  B'  you  awake,  Tess  ? "  whispered  one,  half  an  houi-  later. 
It  was  Izz  Huett's  voice. 

Tess  replied  in  the  affirmative;  whereupon  also  Retty 
and  Marian  suddenly  flung  the  bedclothes  off  them,  and 
sighed,  "  So  be  we  !  " 

'^  I  wonder  what  she  is  like — the  lady  they  say  his  family 
have  looked  out  for  him." 

''  I  wonder,"  said  Izz. 

'^ Some  lady  looked  out  for  him?"  gasped  Tess,  starting. 
^'  I  have  never  heard  o'  that !  " 

^^  Oh  yes,  ^tis  whispered  a  young  lady  of  his  own  rank, 
chosen  by  his  family,  a  Doctor  of  Di^dnity's  daughter  near 
his  father's  parish  of  Emminster ;  he  don't  much  care  for 
her,  they  say.     But  he  is  sure  to  marry  her/^ 


166  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Tliey  had  heard  so  very  little  of  this,  yet  it  was  enough 
to  build  up  wretched  dolorous  dreams  upon,  there  in  the 
shade  of  the  night.  They  pictured  all  the  details  of  his 
being  won  round  to  consent,  of  the  wedding  preparations, 
of  the  bride's  happiness,  of  her  dress  and  veil,  of  her  bliss- 
ful home  with  him,  when  obli\don  would  have  fallen  upon 
themselves  as  far  as  he  and  their  love  were  concerned. 
Thus  they  talked,  and  ached,  and  wept  till  sleep  charmed 
their  sorrow  away. 

After  this  disclosure  Tess  nourished  no  further  foolish 
thought  that  there  lurked  any  grave  and  deliberate  import 
in  Clare's  attentions  to  her.  It  was  a  passing  summer  love 
of  her  face,  for  love's  own  temporary  sake — nothing  more. 
And  the  thorny  crown  of  this  sad  conclusion  was  that  she 
whom  he  really  did  prefer  in  a  cursory  way  to  the  rest,  she 
who  knew  herseK  to  be  more  impassioned  in  nature,  clev- 
erer, more  beautiful  than  they,  was  in  the  eyes  of  society 
far  less  worthy  of  him  than  the  homelier  ones  whom  he 
ignored. 


XXIV. 

Amid  the  oozing  fatness  and  warm  ferments  of  the  Var 
Vale,  at  a  season  when  the  rush  of  juices  could  almost  be 
heard  below  the  hiss  of  fertilization,  it  was  impossible  that 
the  most  fanciful  love  should  not  grow  passionate.  The 
ready  hearts  existing  there  were  impregnated  by  their  siu'- 
roundings. 

July  passed  over  their  heads,  and  the  Thermidorean 
weather  which  came  in  its  wake  seemed  an  effort  on  the 
part  of  Nature  to  match  the  state  of  hearts  at  Talbothays 
Dairy.  The  air  of  the  place,  so  fresh  in  the  spring  and 
early  summer,  was  stagnant  and  enervating  now.  Its 
heavy  scents  weighed  upon  them,  and  at  midday  the  land- 


THE   RALLY.  167 

scape  seemed  lying  in  a  swoon.  Ethiopic  scorchings 
browned  the  upper  slopes  of  the  pastures,  but  there  was 
still  bright  green  herbage  here  where  the  water-courses 
purled.  And  as  Clare  was  oppressed  by  the  outward  heats, 
so  was  he  burdened  inwardly  by  a  waxing  fervor  of  passion 
for  the  soft  and  silent  Tess. 

The  rains  having  passed,  the  uplands  were  dry.  The 
wheels  of  the  daiiyman's  spring  cart,  as  he  sped  home  from 
market,  licked  up  the  pulverized  surface  of  the  highway, 
and  were  followed  by  white  ribands  of  dust,  as  if  they  had 
set  a  thin  powder-train  on  fire.  The  cows  jumped  wildly 
over  the  five-barred  barton-gate,  maddened  by  the  gadfly ; 
Dairyman  Crick  kept  his  sliirt-sleeves  permanently  rolled 
up  past  his  elbows  from  Monday  till  Saturday ;  open  win- 
dows produced  no  effect  in  ventilation  without  open  doors, 
and  in  the  dairy-garden  the  blackbirds  and  tkrushes  crept 
about  under  the  currant-bushes,  rather  in  the  manner  of 
quadrupeds  than  of  winged  creatures.  The  flies  in  the 
kitchen  were  lazy,  teasing,  and  familiar,  crawling  about  in 
unwonted  places,  on  the  floor,  into  drawers,  and  over  the 
backs  of  the  milkmaids'  hands.  Conversations  were  con- 
cerning sunstroke,  while  butter-making,  and  still  more, 
butter-keeping,  was  a  despair. 

They  milked  entirely  in  the  meads  for  coolness  and  con- 
venience, without  driving  in  the  cows.  During  the  day 
the  animals  obsequiously  followed  the  shadow  of  the  small- 
est tree  at  hand,  as  it  moved  round  the  stem  with  the  diur- 
nal roll;  and  when  the  milkers  came  they  could  hardly 
stand  still  for  the  flies. 

On  one  of  these  afternoons  four  or  five  unmilked  cows 
chanced  to  stand  apart  fi-om  the  general  herd,  behind  the 
corner  of  a  hedge,  among  them  being  Dumpling  and  Old 
Pretty,  who  loved  Tess's  hands  above  those  of  any  other 
maid.  When  she  rose  from  her  stool  under  a  finished 
cow,  Angel  Clare,  who  had  been  musingly  observing  her 
for  some  time  as  she  milked,  asked  her  if  she  would  take 


168  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

the  aforesaid  creatures  next.  She  silently  assented,  and 
with,  her  stool  at  arm's  length,  and  the  pail  against  her 
knee,  she  went  round  to  where  they  stood.  Soon  the  sound 
of  Old  Pretty's  milk  fizzing  into  the  pail  came  through  the 
hedge,  and  then  Angel  felt  inclined  to  go  round  the  corner 
also,  to  finish  off  a  hard-pelding  milcher  who  had  strayed 
there,  he  being  now  as  capable  of  this  as  the  dairyman 
himself. 

All  the  men,  and  some  of  the  women,  when  milking,  dug 
their  foreheads  into  the  cows  and  gazed  into  the  pail.  But 
a  few — mainly  the  younger  ones — rested  their  heads  side- 
ways. This  was  Tess  Dui'beyfield's  habit,  her  temple  press- 
ing the  milcher's  flank,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  far  end  of  the 
meadow  with  the  gaze  of  one  lost  in  meditation.  She  was 
milking  Old  Pretty  thus,  and  the  sun  chancing  to  be  on  the 
milking  side,  it  shone  flat  upon  her  pink-gowned  form,  and 
her  white  curtain-bonnet,  and  upon  her  profile,  rendering 
it  dazzlingly  keen,  as  a  cameo  cut  from  the  dun  background 
of  the  cow. 

She  did  not  know  that  Clare  had  followed  her  round, 
and  that  he  sat  under  his  cow  watching  her.  The  abso- 
lute stillness  of  her  head  and  features  was  remarkable  -,  she 
might  have  been  in  a  trance,  her  eyes  open,  yet  unseeing. 
Nothing  in  the  picture  m.oved  but  Old  Pretty's  tail  and 
Tess's  pink  hands,  the  latter  so  gently  as  to  be  a  rhythmic 
pulsation  only,  conveying  the  fancy  that  they  were  obejdng 
a  merely  reflex  stimulus,  like  a  beating  heart. 

How  very  lovable  her  face  was  to  him !  There  was 
nothing  ethereal  about  it ;  all  was  real  Adtality,  real  warmth, 
real  incarnation.  Yet  when  all  was  thought  and  felt  that 
could  be  thought  and  felt  about  her  features  in  general,  it 
was  her  mouth  which  turned  out  to  be  the  magnetic  pole 
thereof.  Eyes  almost  as  deep  and  si^eaking  he  had  seen 
before,  and  cheeks  perhaps  as  fair ;  brows  as  arched,  a  chin 
and  throat  almost  as  shapely;  her  mouth  he  had  seen 
nothing  at  all  to  equal  on  the  face  of  the  earth.     To  a 


THE  RALLY.  169 

young  man  with  the  least  fire  in  him,  that  little  upward 
lift  in  the  middle  of  her  top  lip  was  distracting,  infatuating, 
maddening.  He  had  never  before  seen  a  woman's  lips  and 
teeth  which  forced  upon  his  mind,  with  such  persistent 
iteration,  the  old  Elizabethan  simile  of  roses  filled  with 
snow.  Perfect,  he,  as  a  lover,  might  have  called  them  off- 
hand. But  no ;  they  were  not  perfect.  And  it  was  the 
touch  of  the  imperfect  upon  the  intended  perfect  that  gave 
the  sweetness,  because  it  was  that  which  gave  the  humanity. 

Clare  had  studied  the  curves  of  those  lips  so  many  hours 
that  he  could  reproduce  them  mentally  with  comparative 
ease  5  and  now,  as  they  again  confronted  him,  clothed  ^dth 
color  and  life,  they  sent  an  amxt  over  his  flesh,  a  cold 
breeze  through  his  nerves,  which  well-nigh  produced  a 
qualm ;  and  actually  produced,  by  some  mysterious  physi- 
ological process,  a  prosaic  sneeze. 

She  then  became  conscious  that  he  was  obser\dng  her  5 
but  she  would  not  show  it  by  any  change  of  position,  though 
the  curious  dream-like  fixity  disappeared,  and  a  close  eye 
might  easily  have  discerned  that  the  rosiness  of  her  face 
slowly  deepened,  and  then  faded  till  only  a  tinge  of  it  was 
left. 

The  stimulus  that  had  passed  into  Clare  like  an  annun- 
ciation from  the  sky  did  not  die  doTMi,  Resolutions,  reti- 
cences, prudences,  fears,  fell  back  like  a  defeated  battalion. 
He  jumped  up  from  his  seat,  and,  leaving  his  pail  to  be 
kicked  over  if  the  milcher  had  such  a  mind,  went  quickly 
towards  the  desii-e  of  his  eyes,  and,  kneeUng  down  beside 
her,  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

Tess  was  taken  completely  by  surprise,  and  she  jdelded 
to  his  embrace  with  unreflecting  inevitableness.  Ha\'ing 
seen  that  it  was  really  her  lover  who  had  advanced,  and  no 
one  else,  her  lips  parted,  and  she  sank  upon  him  in  her  mo- 
mentary joy,  wdtli  something  very  like  an  ecstatic  cry. 

He  had  been  on  the  point  of  kissing  that  too  tempting 
mouth  of  hers,  but  he  checked  himself,  even  for  tender  con- 


170  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

science'  sake.  ^^  Forgive  me,  Tess  dear/'  he  whispered.  "  I 
ought  to  have  asked.  I — did  not  know  what  I  was  doing. 
I  do  not  mean  it  as  a  hberty  at  all — I — am  devoted  to  you, 
Tessie,  dearest,  ^Yith  all  my  soul." 

Old  Pretty  by  this  time  had  looked  round,  puzzled ;  and 
seeing  two  people  crouching  under  her  where,  according 
to  immemorial  custom,  there  should  have  been  only  one, 
hfted  her  hind  leg  crossly. 

"  She  is  angry — she  doesn't  know  what  we  mean — she'll 
kick  over  the  milk  !  "  exclaimed  Tess,  gently  striving  to  free 
herself,  her  eyes  concerned  with  the  quadruped's  actions, 
her  heart  more  deeply  concerned  with  herself  and  Clare. 

"  Let  me  lift  you  up — lean  upon  me." 

He  raised  her  from  her  seat,  and  they  stood  together,  his 
arm  still  encircling  her.  Tess's  eyes,  fixed  on  distance,  be- 
gan to  fill. 

^'  Why  do  you  cry,  my  darling  ? "  he  said. 

"  O — I  don't  know !  "  she  murmured  regretfully.  As  she 
saw  and  felt  more  clearly  the  position  she  was  in,  she  be- 
came agitated,  and  tried  to  withdraw. 

''Well,  I  have  betrayed  my  feeling,  Tess,  at  last,"  said 
he,  with  a  cimous  sigh  of  desperation,  signifying,  uncon- 
sciously, that  his  heart  had  outrun  his  judgment.  "  That 
I  love  you  dearly  and  truly  I  need  not  say.  But  I — it  shall 
go  no  further  now — it  distresses  you — I  am  as  surprised  as 
you  are.  You  mil  not  think  I  have  presumed  upon  your 
defencelessness — been  too  quick  and  unreflecting,  ^vill  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know! " 

He  had  reluctantly  allowed  her  to  free  herself ;  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  the  milking  of  each  was  resumed.  Nobody 
had  beheld  the  unpremeditated  gravitation  of  the  two  into 
one ;  and  when  the  dairyman  came  round  by  that  screened 
nook  a  few  minutes  later  there  was  not  a  sign  to  reveal 
that  the  markedly  sundered  pair  were  more  to  each  other 
than  mere  acquaintance.  Yet,  in  the  interval  since  Crick's 
last  view  of  them,  something  had  occurred  which  changed 


THE  RALLY.  171 

the  pivot  of  the  universe  for  theii*  two  natures — whilst  it 
should  last  -,  something  which,  had  he  known  its  quahty, 
the  dairjTiian  would  have  despised,  as  a  practical  man,  yet 
which  was  based  upon  a  more  stubborn  and  resistless  ten- 
dency than  a  whole  heap  of  so-called  practicalities.  A  veil 
had  been  whisked  aside ;  the  tract  of  each  one's  outlook 
was  to  have  a  new  horizon  thenceforward — for  a  short 
time  or  for  a  long. 


THE    CONSEQUENCE 


XXV. 

Clare,  restless,  went  out  into  the  dusk  as  soon  as  even- 
ing drew  on,  she  who  had  won  him  having  retired  to  her 
chamber. 

The  night  was  as  sultry  as  the  day.  There  was  no  cool- 
ness after  dark  unless  on  the  grass.  Roads,  garden  paths, 
the  house  fronts,  the  barton  walls  were  warm  as  hearths, 
and  reflected  the  noontide  temperature  into  the  noctam- 
buhst's  face. 

He  sat  on  the  east  gate  of  the  dairy-yard,  and  knew  not 
what  to  think  of  himself.  Feehng  had  indeed  smothered 
judgment  that  day. 

Since  the  sudden  embrace,  three  hours  before,  the  twain 
had  kept  apart.  She  seemed  fevered,  almost  alarmed,  at 
what  had  occurred,  while  the  novelty,  unpremeditation, 
mastery  of  cii'cumstances  disquieted  him — palpitating,  con- 
templative being  that  he  was.  He  could  hardly  reaUze 
their  true  relations  to  each  other  as  yet,  and  what  their 
mutual  bearing  should  be  before  thu'd  parties  thencefor- 
ward. 

Angel  Clare  had  come  as  pupil  to  this  dairy  in  the  idea 
that  his  temporary  existence  here  was  to  be  the  merest 
episode  in  his  life,  soon  passed  through  and  early  forgotten ; 
he  had  come  as  to  a  place  from  which  as  from  a  screened 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  173 

alcove  he  could  calmly  \dew  the  absorbing  world  surging 
mthout,  and,  apostrophizing  it  with  Walt  Whitman — 

Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes, 
How  curious  you  are  to  me  ! — 

resolve  upon  a  plan  for  plunging  into  that  world  anew. 
But,  behold,  the  absorbing  scene  had  been  imported  hither, 
and  what  had  been  the  engrossing  world  had  dissolved 
into  an  uninteresting,  outer  dumb  show ;  while  here,  in  this 
apparently  dim  and  unimpassioned  place,  novelty  had  vol- 
canically  started  up,  as  it  had  never,  for  hiin,  started  up 
elsewhere. 

Every  \\indow  of  the  house  being  open,  Clare  could  hear 
across  the  yard  each  faint  and  tri^dal  sound  of  the  retmng 
household.  That  dairy-house,  so  humble,  so  insignificant, 
so  piu-ely,  to  him,  a  place  of  constrained  sojourn  that  he 
had  never  hitherto  deemed  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
reconnoitred  as  an  object  of  any  quality  whatever  in  the 
landscape — what  was  it.  now  ?  The  aged  and  lichened  brick 
gables  breathed  forth  "  Stay  !  "  The  windows  smiled,  the 
door  coaxed  and  beckoned,  the  creeper  blushed  confederacy. 
A  personality  within  it  was  so  far-reaching  in  her  influence 
as  to  spread  into  and  make  the  bricks,  mortar,  and  whole 
overhanging  sky  throb  with  a  burning  sensil^iHty.  Whose 
was  this  mighty  personality !     A  milkmaid's. 

It  was  amazing,  indeed,  to  find  how  great  a  matter  the 
life  of  the  obscure  daiiy  had  become  to  him.  And  though 
new  love  was  to  be  held  partly  responsible  for  this,  it  was 
not  solely  so.  Many  besides  Angel  Clare  have  learnt  that 
the  magnitude  of  Hves  is  not  as  to  their  external  displace- 
ments, but  as  to  their  subjective  experiences.  The  impres- 
sionable peasant  leads  a  larger,  fuller,  more  dramatic  life 
than  the  pachydermatous  king.  Looking  at  it  thus,  he 
found  that  life  had  much  the  same  magnitude  here  as  else- 
where. 


174  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

Despite  his  heterodoxy,  faults,  and  weaknesses,  Clare 
was  a  man  with  a  conscience.  Tess  was  no  insignificant 
creature  to  toy  with  and  dismiss  j  but  a  woman  living  her 
precious  life — a  life  which  to  herself,  who  endured  or  en- 
joyed it,  possessed  as  great  a  dimension  as  the  life  of  the 
mightiest  to  himself.  Upon  her  sensations  the  whole  world 
depended  to  Tess;  through  her  existence  all  her  fellow- 
creatures  existed,  to  her.  The  universe  itself  only  came 
into  being  for  Tess  on  the  particular  day  in  the  particular 
year  in  which  she  was  born. 

This  consciousness  upon  which  he  had  intruded  was  the 
single  opportunity  of  existence  ever  vouchsafed  to  Tess  by 
an  unsympathetic  First  Cause — her  all  5  her  every  and  only 
chance.  How  then  should  he  look  upon  her  as  of  less  con- 
sequence than  himself ;  as  a  pretty  trifle  to  patronizingly 
caress  and  grow  weary  of;  and  not  deal  in  the  greatest 
seriousness  mth  the  affection  which  he  knew  that  he  had 
awakened  in  her — so  fervid  and  so  impressionable  as  she 
was  under  her  reserve ;  in  order  that  it  might  not  agonize 
and  wreck  her  ? 

To  encounter  her  daily  in  the  accustomed  manner  would 
be  to  develop  what  had  begun.  Living  in  such  close  rela- 
tions, to  meet  meant  to  fall  into  endearment ;  flesh  and 
blood  could  not  resist  it  5  and,  ha\dng  arrived  at  no  conclu- 
sion as  to  the  issue  of  such  a  tendency,  he  decided  to  hold 
aloof  for  the  present  fiom  occupations  in  which  they  would 
be  mutually  engaged.     As  yet  the  harm  done  was  small. 

But  it  was  not  easy  to  carry  out  the  resolution  never  to 
approach  her.  He  was  continually  burning  to  be  with  her ; 
driven  towards  her  by  every  impulse  within  him. 

He  thought  he  would  go  and  see  his  friends.  It  might 
be  possible  to  sound  them  upon  this.  In  less  than  five 
months  his  term  here  would  have  ended,  and,  after  a  few 
additional  months  spent  upon  other  farms,  he  would  be 
fully  equipped  in  agricultural  knowledge,  and  in  a  position 
to  start  on  his  own  account.     Would  not  a  farmer  want  a 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  175 

wife,  and  slioiild  a  farmer's  wnfe  be  a  drawing-room  wax 
figure,  or  a  woman  who  understood  farming?  Notwith- 
standing the  pleasing  answer  returned  to  him  by  the  silence, 
he  resolved  to  go  his  journey. 

One  morning  when  they  sat  down  to  breakfast  at  Tal- 
bothays  Dauy,  some  maid  observed  that  she  had  not  seen 
anything  of  Mr.  Clare  that  day. 

''Oh  no,"  said  Dairyman  Crick.  "Mr.  Clare  has  gone 
home  to  Emminster  to  spend  a  few  days  wi'  his  relations." 

For  four  impassioned  ones  around  that  table  the  sun- 
shine of  the  morning  went  out  at  a  stroke,  and  the  birds 
muffled  their  song.  But  neither  girl,  by  word  or  gestui*e, 
revealed  her  inner  blankness. 

"  He's  getting  on  towards  the  end  of  his  time  wi'  me," 
added  the  dairyman,  with  a  phlegm  which  unconsciously 
was  brutal ;  "  and  so  I  suppose  he  is  beginning  to  see  about 
his  plans  elsewhere." 

"  How  much  longer  is  he  to  stay  here  ? "  asked  Izz  Huett, 
the  only  one  of  the  gloom-stricken  bevy  who  could  trust  her 
voice  with  the  question. 

The  others  waited  for  the  daiiyman's  answer  as  if  their 
lives  hung  upon  it ;  Eetty,  with  parted  lips,  gazing  on  the 
table-cloth,  Marian  with  heat  added  to  her  redness,  Tess 
throbbing  and  looking  out  at  the  meads. 

"  Well,  I  can't  mind  the  exact  day  mthout  looking  at  my 
memorandum-book,"  replied  Crick,'*  mth  the  same  intoler- 
able unconcern.  "And  even  that  mav  be  altered  a  bit. 
He'll  bide  to  get  a  little  practice  in  the  calving,  out  at  the 
straw-yard,  for  certain.  He'll  hang  on  to  the  end  of  the 
year,  I  should  say." 

Four  months  or  so  of  torturing  ecstasy  in  his  society — 
of  "pleasure  girdled  about  with  pain."  After  that  the 
blackness  of  unutterable  night. 

At  this  moment  of  the  morning  Angel  Clare  was  riding 
along  a  narrow  lane  ten  miles  distant  from  the  breakf asters. 


176  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

in  the  dii'ection  of  his  father's  vicarage  at  Emminster,  car- 
Tjing  as  well  as  he  could  a  httle  basket  which  contained 
some  black  puddings  and  a  bottle  of  mead,  sent  by  Mrs. 
Crick,  with  her  kind  respects,  to  his  parents.  The  white 
lane  stretched  before  him,  and  his  eyes  were  nj)on  it ;  but 
they  were  staring  into  next  year,  and  not  at  the  lane.  He 
loved  her ;  ought  he  to  marry  her  ?  Dared  he  to  marry 
her  ?  "Wliat  would  his  parents  and  his  brothers  say  ?  What 
would  he  himself  say  a  couple  of  years  after  the  event? 
That  would  depend  upon  whether  the  germs  of  staunch 
comradeship  (without  which  no  marriage  should  be  made) 
underlay  the  temporary  emotion,  or  whether  it  were  a  sen- 
suous joy  in  her  form  only,  with  no  substratum  of  ever- 
lastingness. 

His  f athei^s  hill-surrounded  httle  town,  the  Tudor  church- 
tower  of  red  stone,  the  clump  of  trees  near  the  vicarage, 
came  at  last  into  view  beneath  him,  and  he  rode  down  to- 
wards the  well-known  gate.  Casting  a  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  church  before  entering  his  home,  he  beheld 
standing  by  the  vestry-door  a  group  of  girls,  of  ages  be- 
tween twelve  and  sixteen,  apparently  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  some  other  one,  who  in  a  moment  became  visible  in  the 
shape  of  a  figure,  somewhat  older  than  the  schoolgirls,  wear- 
ing a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  highly  starched  cambric  morn- 
ing-gown, with  a  couple  of  books  in  her  hand. 

Clare  knew  her  well.  He  could  not  be  sure  that  she  ob- 
served him ;  he  hoped  she  did  not,  so  as  to  render  it  un- 
necessary that  he  should  go  and  speak  to  her,  blameless 
creature  that  she  was.  An  overpowering  reluctance  to 
greet  her  made  him  decide  that  she  had  not  seen  him.  The 
young  lady  was  Miss  Mercy  Chant,  the  only  daughter  of 
his  father's  neighbor  and  friend,  whom  it  was  his  parents^ 
quiet  hope  that  he  might  wed  some  day.  She  was  great  at 
Antinomianism  and  Bible-classes,  and  was  plainly  going  to 
hold  a  class  now  in  the  vestrv.  Clare's  mind  for  a  moment 
flew  back  to  the  impassioned,  sun-flushed,  summer-satui-ated 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  177 

heatliens  in  Yar  Vale,  and  to  the  most  li\dng,  tenderest,  in- 
tensest  of  tliem  all. 

It  was  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  that  he  had  resolved 
to  trot  over  to  Emminster,  and  hence  had  not  wiitten  to 
apprise  his  mother  and  father,  aiming,  however,  to  arrive 
about  the  breakfast  hour,  before  they  should  have  gone  out 
to  their  parish  duties.  He  was  a  little  late,  and  they  had 
abeady  sat  down  to  the  morning  meal.  The  group  at  table 
jumped  up  to  welcome  him  as  soon  as  he  entered.  They 
were  his  father  and  mother,  his  brother,  the  Reverend  Felix 
— curate  at  a  town  in  the  adjoining  county,  home  for  the 
inside  of  a  fortnight — and  his  other  brother,  the  Reverend 
Cuthbert,  the  classical  scholar,  and  Fellow  and  Dean  of  his 
college,  down  from  Cambridge  for  the  long  vacation.  His 
mother  appeared  in  a  cap  and  silver  spectacles,  and  his 
father  looked  what  in  fact  he  was — an  earnest,  God-fearing 
man,  somewhat  gaunt,  in  years  about  sixty-five,  his  pale 
face  lined  with  thought  and  purpose.  Over  then*  heads 
hung  the  picture  of  Angel's  half-sister,  the  eldest  of  the 
f  amity,  sixteen  years  his  senior,  who  had  married  a  mission- 
ary and  gone  out  to  Africa. 

Old  Mr.  Clare  was  a  clerg-jonan  of  a  type  which,  within 
the  last  twenty  years,  has  dropped  out  of  contemporary 
Hfe  with  well-nigh  startling  suddenness.  A  spiritual  de- 
scendant in  the  direct  line  from  Wycliff,  Huss,  Luther,  Cal- 
vin ;  an  Evangelical  of  the  Evangelicals,  a  Conversionist, 
a  man  of  Apostolic  simplicity  in  life  and  thought,  he  had 
in  his  youth  made  up  his  mind  once  for  all  on  the  deeper 
questions  of  existence,  and  admitted  no  fm^ther  reasoning 
on  them  thenceforward.  He  was  regarded  even  by  those 
of  his  o^Ti  date  and  school  of  thinking  as  extreme ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  those  totally  opposed  to  him  were  un- 
willingly won  to  admiration  for  his  thoroughness,  and  for 
the  remarkable  power  he  showed  in  dismissing  all  question- 
ing as  to  principles  in  his  energy  for  applying  them.  He 
loved  Paul  of  Tarsus,  liked  Saint  John,  hated  Saint  James 

12 


178  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

as  mucli  as  he  dared,  and  regarded  with  mixed  feelings 
Timothy,  Titus,  and  Philemon.  The  New  Testament  was 
less  a  Cliiistiad  than  a  Pauliad  to  his  intelligence — less  an 
argument  than  an  intoxication.  His  creed  of  determinism 
was  such  that  it  almost  amounted  to  a  vice,  and  quite 
amounted,  on  its  negative  side,  to  a  renunciative  philosophy 
which  had  cousinship  with  that  of  Schopenhauer  and  Leo- 
pard!. He  despised  the  Canons  and  Rubric,  swore  by  the 
Articles,  and  deemed  himself  consistent  with  the  whole  cate- 
gory— which  in  a  way  he  might  have  been.  One  thing  he 
certainly  was — sincere. 

To  the  aesthetic,  sensuous,  pagan  pleasm'e  in  natural  life 
and  womanhood  which  his  son  Angel  had  lately  been  experi- 
encing in  Var  Vale,  his  temper  would  have  been  antipathetic 
in  a  high  degi'ee  had  he  either  by  inquiiy  or  imagination  been 
able  to  apprehend  it.  Once  upon  a  time  Angel  had  been 
so  unlucky  as  to  say  to  his  father,  in  a  moment  of  irritation, 
that  it  might  have  resulted  far  better  for  mankind  if  Greece 
had  been  the  source  of  the  religion  of  modern  civilization, 
and  not  Palestine ;  and  his  father's  gi'ief  was  of  that  blank 
description  which  could  not  realize  that  there  might  lurk  a 
thousandth  part  of  a  truth,  much  less  a  half  truth,  or  a 
whole  truth,  in  such  a  proposition.  He  had  simply  preached 
austerely  at  Angel  for  a  long  time  after.  But  the  kindness 
of  his  heart  was  such  that  he  never  resented  anything  for 
long,  and  welcomed  his  son  to-day  with  a  smile  which  was 
as  candidly  sweet  as  a  child's. 

Angel  sat  down,  and  the  place  felt  like  home ;  yet  he  did 
not  so  much  as  formerlv  feel  himself  one  of  the  familv 
gathered  there.  Every  time  that  he  returned  thither  he 
was  conscious  of  this  divergence,  and  smce  he  had  last 
shared  in  the  \dcarage  life  it  had  gro^vn  even  more  dis- 
tinctly foreign  to  his  own  than  usual.  Its  transcendental 
aspirations — still  unconsciously  based  on  the  geocentric 
view  of  things,  a  zenithal  paradise,  a  nadiral  hell — were  as 
remote  from  his  own  as  if  they  had  been  the  dreams  of 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  179 

people  on  another  planet.  Latterly  lie  had  seen  only  Life, 
felt  only  the  great  passionate  pnlse  of  existence,  un warped, 
uncontorted,  untrammelled  by  those  creeds  which  futilely 
attempt  to  check  what  wisdom  would  be  content  to  disci- 
pline. 

On  their  part  they  saw  a  great  difference  in  him,  a  grow- 
ing divergence  from  the  Angel  Clare  of  former  tunes.  It 
was  chiefl}^  a  difference  in  his  manner  that  they  noticed  just 
now,  particularly  his  brothers.  He  was  getting  to  behave 
like  a  farmer ;  he  flung  his  legs  about ;  the  muscles  of  his 
face  had  gro^^Ti  more  expressive ;  his  eyes  looked  as  much 
information  as  his  tongue  spoke,  and  more.  The  manner 
of  the  scholar  had  nearly  disappeared ;  still  more,  the  man- 
ner of  the  drawing-room  young  man.  A  prig  would  have 
said  that  he  had  lost  culture,  and  a  prude  that  he  had  be- 
come coarse.  Such  was  the  contagion  of  domiciliary  fel- 
lowship with  the  Talbothays  nymphs  and  swains. 

After  breakfast  he  walked  with  his  two  brothers,  non- 
Evangelical,  well-educated,  hall-marked  young  men,  correct 
to  their  remotest  fibre  5  such  unimpeachable  models  as  are 
turned  out  yearly  by  the  lathe  of  a  systematic  tuition.  They 
were  both  somewhat  short-sighted,  and  when  it  was  the  cus- 
tom to  wear  a  single  eyeglass  and  string  they  wore  a  single 
eyeglass  and  string ;  when  it  was  the  custom  to  wear  a  dou- 
ble glass  they  wore  a  double  glass ;  when  it  was  the  custom 
to  wear  spectacles  they  wore  spectacles  straightway,  all 
without  reference  to  the  particular  variety  of  defect  in  their 
own  vision.  When  Wordsworth  was  enthroned  they  carried 
pocket  copies ;  and  when  Shelley  was  belittled  they  allowed 
him  to  grow  dusty  on  their  shelves.  When  Correggio's 
Holy  Families  were  admired  they  admired  Correggio's  Holy 
Families  ;  when  he  was  decried  in  favor  of  Velasquez  they 
sedulously  followed  suit  without  any  personal  objection. 

If  these  two  noticed  Angel's  growing  social  ineptness,  he 
noticed  their  growing  mental  limitations.  FeUx  seemed  to 
him  all  Church ;  Cuthbert  all  College.    His  Diocesan  Synod 


180  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

and  Visitations  were  the  mainsprings  of  the  world  to  the 
one )  Cambridge  to  the  other.  Each  brother  candidly  recog- 
nized that  there  were  a  few  unimportant  scores  of  millions 
of  outsiders  in  civilized  society,  i3ersons  who  were  neither 
University  men  nor  Chui'chmen  j  but  they  were  to  be  pitied 
and  tolerated  rather  than  reckoned  with  and  respected. 

They  were  both  dutiful  and  attentive  sons,  and  were  reg- 
ular in  their  visits  to  their  parents.  Felix,  though  an  off- 
shoot from  a  far  more  recent  iDoint  in  the  devolution  of 
theology  than  his  father,  was  less  self-sacrificing  and  disin- 
terested. More  tolerant  than  his  father  of  a  contradictorv 
opinion,  in  its  aspect  as  a  danger  to  its  holder,  he  was  less 
ready  than  his  father  to  pardon  it  as  a  slight  to  his  own 
teaching.  Cuthbert  was,  upon  the  whole,  the  more  liberal- 
minded,  though,  with  greater  subtlety,  he  had  not  so  much 
heart. 

As  they  walked  along  the  hill-side.  Angel's  former  feeling 
revived  in  liim — namely,  that  whatever  their  advantages  by 
comparison  with  himself,  neither  saw  or  set  forth  life  as  it 
really  was  lived.  Perhaps,  as  with  many  men,  their  oppor- 
tunities of  observation  were  not  so  good  as  their  opportuni- 
ties of  expression.  Neither  had  an  adequate  conception  of 
the  complicated  forces  at  work  outside  the  smooth  and 
gentle  current  in  which  they  and  their  associates  floated. 
Neither  saw  the  difference  between  local  truth  and  univer- 
sal truth ;  that  what  the  inner  world  said  in  their  clerical 
and  academic  hearing  was  quite  a  different  thing  from 
what  the  outer  world  was  thinking. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  farming  or  nothing  for  you  now,  my 
dear  fellow,"  Felix  was  sajdng,  among  other  things,  to  his 
youngest  brother,  as  he  looked  through  his  spectacles  at 
the  distant  fields  with  sad  austerity.  "  And,  therefore,  we 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  But  I  do  entreat  you  to  endeavor 
to  keep  as  much  as  possible  in  touch  with  moral  ideals. 
Farming,  of  course,  means  roughing  it  literally ;  but  high 
thinking  may  go  with  plain  li\dng,  nevertheless." 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  181 

^^  Of  course  it  may/'  said  Angel.  ^'  Was  it  not  proved 
nineteen  hundred  years  ago — if  I  may  trespass  upon  your 
domain  a  little  ?  Why  should  you  tliink,  Felix,  that  I  am 
likely  to  drop  my  high- thinking  and  moral  ideals  ? " 

"  Well,  I  fancied,  from  the  tone  of  your  letters  and  our 
conversation — it  may  be  fancy  only — that  you  were  some- 
how losing  intellectual  grasp.  Hasn't  it  struck  you,  Cuth- 
bert  ? " 

^'Now,  Felix,"  said  Angel,  dryly,  ^^we  are  very  good 
friends,  you  know,  each  of  us  treading  our  allotted  cii'cles ; 
but  if  it  comes  to  intellectual  grasp,  I  think  you,  as  a  con- 
tented theologian,  had  better  leave  mine  alone,  and  inquire 
what  has  become  of  yoiu'S." 

They  retui-ned  down  the  hill  to  dinner,  which  was  fixed 
at  any  time  at  which  their  father's  and  mother's  morning 
work  in  the  parish  usually  concluded.  Convenience  as  re- 
garded afternoon  callers  was  the  last  thing  to  enter  into 
the  consideration  of  unselfish  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clare ;  though 
the  three  sons  were  sufftciently  in  unison  on  this  matter  to 
wish  that  their  parents  would  conform  a  little  to  modern 
notions. 

The  walk  had  made  them  hungiy,  Angel  in  particular, 
who  was  now  an  outdoor  man,  accustomed  to  the  profuse 
dapes  memptce  of  the  dairyman's  somewhat  coarsely  laden 
table.  But  neither  of  the  old  people  had  arrived,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  sons  were  almost  tired  of  waiting  that  their 
parents  entered.  The  self-denying  pair  had  been  occupied 
in  coaxing  the  appetites  of  some  of  their  sick  parishioners, 
whom  they,  somewhat  inconsistently,  tried  to  keep  impris- 
oned in  the  flesh,  and  had  totally  forgotten  their  o^vn. 

The  family  sat  down  to  table,  and  a  frugal  meal  of  cold 
viands  was  deposited  before  them.  Angel  looked  round  for 
Mrs.  Crick's  black  puddings,  which  he  had  directed  to  be 
nicely  grilled,  as  they  did  them  at  the  daiiy,  and  of  which 
he  wished  his  father  and  mother  to  appreciate  the  marvel- 
lous herbal  savors  as  highly  as  he  did  himself. 


182  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^^  All !  you  are  looking  for  the  black  puddings,  my  dear 
boy/'  observed  Clare's  mother.  '^  But  I  am  sure  you  will 
not  mind  doing  without  them,  as  I  am  sure  your  father  and 
I  shall  not,  when  you  know  the  reason.  I  suggested  to 
him  that  we  should  take  Mrs.  Crick's  kind  present  to  the 
children  of  the  man  who  can  earn  nothing  just  now  because 
of  his  attacks  of  delii'ium  tremens ;  and  he  agreed  that  it 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  them ;  so  we  did." 

^'  Of  course/'  said  Angel,  cheerfully,  looking  round  for 
the  mead. 

'^  I  found  the  mead  so  extremely  alcoholic/'  continued  his 
mother,  ''that  it  was  quite  unfit  for  use  as  a  beverage,  but 
as  valuable  as  rum  or  brandy  in  an  emergency  j  so  I  have 
put  it  in  my  medicine-chest." 

^'  We  never  drink  spirits  at  this  table,  on  principle,"  added 
his  father. 

''  But  what  shaU  I  tell  the  dairyman's  mfe  ? "  said  Angel. 

"  The  truth,  of  course,"  said  his  father. 

''  I  rather  wanted  to  say  we  enjoyed  the  mead  and  the 
black  puddings  very  much.  She  is  a  kind,  jolly  sort  of 
body,  and  is  sure  to  ask  me  dii'ectly  I  return." 

"  You  cannot  if  we  did  not,"  Mr.  Clare  answered,  lucidly. 

"  Ah — no ;  though  that  mead  was  a  drop  of  pretty  tipple." 

"A  what?" 

"O — 'tis  an  expression  they  use  down  at  Talbothays," 
replied  Angel,  blushing.  He  felt  that  his  parents  were  right 
in  their  practice  if  wrong  in  their  want  of  sentiment,  and 
said  no  more. 


XXVI. 

It  was  not  till  the  evening,  after  family  prayers,  that 
Angel  found  opportunity  of  broaching  to  his  father  one 
or  two  subjects  near  his  heart.  He  had  strung  himself  up 
to  the  purpose  while  kneeling  behind  his  brothers  on  the 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  183 

carpet,  regarding  the  soles  of  theii'  walking-boots  and  the 
little  nails  in  their  heels.  When  the  service  was  over  they 
went  out  of  the  room  with  their  mother,  and  Mr.  Clare  and 
himself  w^ere  left  alone. 

The  young  man  first  discussed  with  the  elder  his  plan 
for  the  attainment  of  his  position  as  a  farmer  on  an  exten- 
sive scale — either  in  England  or  in  the  Colonies.  His 
father  then  told  him  that,  as  he  had  not  been  put  to  the  ex- 
pense of  sending  Angel  up  to  Cambridge,  he  had  felt  it  his 
duty  to  set  by  a  sum  of  money  every  year  towards  the  pur- 
chase or  lease  of  land  for  him  some  day,  that  he  might  not 
feel  himself  unduly  slighted.  ^^As  far  as  worldly  wealth 
goes,"  continued  his  father,  ^'you  will  no  doubt  stand  far 
superior  to  your  brothers  in  a  few  years." 

This  considerateness  on  old  Mr.  Clare's  part  led  Angel 
onward  to  the  other  and  dearer  subject.  He  observed  to 
his  father  that  he  was  then  six-and-twentv,  and  that  when 
he  should  start  in  the  farming  business  he  would  require 
eyes  in  the  back  of  his  head  to  see  to  all  matters — some 
one  would  be  necessary  to  superintend  the  domestic  labors 
of  his  establishment  wliilst  he  was  afield.  Would  it  not  be 
well,  therefore,  for  him  to  marry  ? 

His  father  seemed  to  think  this  idea  not  unreasonable ; 
and  then  Angel  put  the  question :  "  What  kind  of  wife  do 
you  think  would  be  best  for  me  as  a  thrifty,  hard-working 
farmer  ? " 

"A  truly  Cliristian  woman,  who  will  be  a  help  and  a 
comfort  to  you  in  your  goings-out  and  youi'  comings-in. 
Beyond  that,  it  really  matters  little.  Such  an  one  can  be 
found ;  indeed,  my  earnest-minded  friend  and  neighbor, 
Dr.  Chant " 

'^  But  ought  she  not  primarily  to  be  able  to  milk  cows, 
churn  good  butter,  make  immense  cheeses;  know  how  to 
set  hens  and  tui^keys  and  rear  chickens,  to  direct  a  field  of 
laborers  in  an  emergency,  and  estimate  the  value  of  sheep 
and  calves?" 


184  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Yes ;  a  farmer's  wife ;  yes,  certainly.  It  would  be  de- 
sii'able."  Mr.  Clare,  the  elder,  had  plainly  never  thought 
of  these  points  before.  "I  was  going  to  add,"  he  said, 
''  that,  for  a  pure  and  saintly  woman,  you  will  not  find  one 
more  to  your  true  advantage,  and  certainly  not  more  to 
your  mother's  mind  and  my  own,  than  your  friend  Mercy, 
whom  you  used  to  show  a  certain  interest  in.  It  is  true 
that  my  neighbor  Chant's  daughter  has  lately  caught  up 
the  fashion  of  the  younger  clergy  round  about  us  for  dec- 
orating the  Communion-table — altar,  as  I  was  shocked  to 
hear  her  call  it  one  dav — with  flowers  and  other  stuff  on 
festival  occasions.  But  her  father,  who  is  quite  as  opposed 
to  such  flummery  as  I,  says  that  can  be  cured.  It  is  a 
mere  giiiish  outbreak  which,  I  am  siu'e,  will  not  be  per- 
manent." 

^'  Yes,  yes :  Mercy  is  good  and  devout,  I  know.  But, 
father,  don't  you  think  that  a  young  woman  equally  pure 
and  virtuous  as  Miss  Chant,  but  one  who,  in  place  of  that 
lady's  ecclesiastical  accomplishments,  understands  the  duties 
of  farm  Ufe  as  well  as  a  farmer  himself,  would  suit  me  in- 
flnitelv  better?" 

His  father  persisted  in  his  conviction  that  a  knowledge 
of  a  farmer's  wife's  duties  came  second  to  a  Pauline  view 
of  humanity ;  and  the  impulsive  Angel,  wishing  to  honor 
his  father's  feelings  and  to  advance  the  cause  of  his  heart 
at  the  same  time,  grew  specious.  He  said  that  fate  or 
Providence  had  thrown  in  his  way  a  woman  who  possessed 
every  qualification  to  be  the  helpmate  of  an  agriculturist, 
and  was  decidedlv  of  a  serious  turn  of  mind.  He  would 
not  say  whether  or  not  she  had  attached  herself  to  tlie 
sound  Low  Church  Scliool  of  his  father;  but  she  would 
probably  be  open  to  con\dction  on  that  point ;  she  was  a 
regular  church-goer  of  simple  faith  ;  honest-hearted,  recep- 
tive, intelligent,  graceful  to  a  degree,  chaste  as  a  vestal, 
and,  in  personal  appearance,  exceptionally  beautiful. 

"  Is  she  of  a  family  such  as  you  would  care  to  marry  into 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  185 

— a  lady,  in  short  ?"  asked  his  startled  mother,  who  had 
come  softly  into  the  study  during  the  conversation. 

"  She  is  not  what  in  common  parlance  is  called  a  lady," 
said  Angel,  unflinchingly,  ^^  for  she  is  a  cottager's  daughter, 
as  I  am  proud  to  say.  But  she  is  a  lady,  nevertheless — in 
feehng  and  nature." 

"  Mercy  Chant  is  of  a  very  good  family." 

"Pooh! — what's  the  advantage  of  that,  mother?"  said 
Clare,  quickly.  "  How  is  family  to  avail  the  wife  of  a  man 
who  has  to  rough  it  as  I  have,  and  shall  have  to  do?" 

"Mercy  is  accomplished.  And  accomplishments  have 
their  charm,"  retui-ned  his  mother,  looking  at  him  through 
her  silver  spectacles. 

"As  to  external  accomplishments,  what  will  be  the  use 
of  them  in  the  life  I  am  going  to  lead? — while  as  to  her 
reading,  I  can  take  that  in  hand.  She'll  be  apt  pupil 
enough,  as  you  would  say  if  you  knew  her.  She's  brimful 
of  poetry — actualized  poetry,  if  I  may  use  the  expression. 
She  lives  what  paper-poets  only  write.  .  .  .  And  she  is  an 
unimpeachable  Christian,  I  am  sure ;  perhaps  of  the  very 
tribe,  genus,  and  species  you  desire  to  propagate." 

"  O  Angel,  you  are  mocking !  " 

"  Mother,  I  beg  pardon.  But  as  she  really  does  attend 
church  almost  every  Sunday  morning,  and  is  a  good 
Christian  girl,  I  am  sure  you  ^Yl\l  tolerate  any  social  short- 
comings for  the  sake  of  that  quality,  and  feel  that  I  may  do 
worse  than  choose  her."  Angel  almost  unconsciously  waxed 
enthusiastic  on  that  rather  automatic  orthodoxy  in  his  be- 
loved Tess,  which  (never  di'eaming  that  it  might  stand  him 
in  such  good  stead)  he  had  been  prone  to  slight  when  ob- 
serving it  practised  by  her  and  the  other  milkmaids — less 
on  account  of  his  ot\ti  scepticism  than  because  of  its  obvious 
unrealitv  in  lives  essentiallv  natiu*ahstic. 

In  their  sad  doubts  as  to  Avhether  their  son  had  himself 
any  right  whatever  to  the  title  he  claimed  for  the  unknown 
young  woman,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clare  began  to  feel  it  as  an 


186  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

advantage  not  to  be  overlooked  that  she  at  least  was  sound 
in  her  views ;  especially  as  the  conjunction  of  the  pair  must 
have  arisen  by  chance  or  Providence ;  for  Angel  never 
would  have  made  orthodoxy  a  condition  of  his  choice. 
They  said  finally  that  it  was  better  not  to  act  in  a  hurry, 
but  that  they  would  not  object  to  see  her. 

Angel  therefore  refrained  from  declaring  more  particu- 
lars now.  He  felt  that,  single-minded  and  self-sacrificing 
as  his  parents  were,  there  yet  existed  certain  latent  prej- 
udices of  theirs,  as  middle-class  people,  which  would  re- 
quire some  tact  to  overcome.  For  though  legally  at  liberty 
to  do  as  he  chose,  and  though  their  daughter-in-law's  quali- 
fications could  make  no  practical  difference  to  theii'  lives, 
in  the  probability  of  her  li^dng  far  away  fi'om  them,  he 
wished  for  affection's  sake  not  to  wound  their  sentiment  in 
the  most  important  decision  of  his  life. 

He  observed  his  own  inconsistencies  in  dwelling  upon 
accidents  in  Tess's  life  as  if  thev  were  vital  features.  It  was 
for  herseK  that  he  loved  Tess ;  her  soul,  her  heart,  her  sub- 
stance— not  for  her  skiU  in  the  daily,  her  aptness  as  his 
scholar,  and  certainly  not  for  her  simple,  formal  faith-pro- 
fession. Her  unsophisticated,  open-air  existence  required 
no  varnish  of  conventionality  to  make  it  palatable  to  him. 
He  held  that  education  had  as  yet  but  little  affected  the 
beats  of  emotion  and  impulse  on  which  domestic  happiness 
depends.  It  was  probable  that,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  im- 
proved systems  of  moral  and  intellectual  training  would 
appreciably,  perhaps  considerably,  elevate  the  involuntary, 
and  even  the  unconscious,  instincts  of  human  nature ;  but 
up  to  the  present  day,  cultiu-e,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  might 
be  said  to  have  affected  only  the  mental  epiderm  of  those 
lives  wliich  had  been  brought  under  its  influence.  This 
belief  was  confirmed  by  his  experience  of  women,  which, 
having  latterly  been  extended  from  the  cultivated  middle- 
class  into  the  rural  community,  had  taught  him  how  much 
less  was  the  intrinsic  difference  between  the  good  and  wise 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  187 

woman  of  one  social  stratum,  and  the  good  and  wise  wo- 
man of  another  social  stratum,  than  between  the  good  and 
bad,  the  wise  and  the  foolish,  of  the  same  stratum  or  class. 

It  was  the  morning  of  his  departure.  His  brothers  had 
already  left  the  \dcarage  to  proceed  on  a  walking  tour  in 
the  north,  whence  one  was  to  return  to  his  college,  and  the 
other  to  his  curacy.  Angel  might  have  accompanied  them, 
but  preferred  to  rejoin  his  sweetheart  at  Talbothays.  He 
would  have  been  an  awkward  member  of  the  party;  for, 
though  the  most  appreciative  humanist,  the  most  ideal  re- 
Hgionist,  even  the  finest  theologian  and  Christologist  of  the 
three,  there  was  alienation  in  the  standing  consciousness 
that  his  squareness  would  not  fit  the  round  hole  that  had 
been  prepared  for  him.  To  neither  Felix  nor  Cuthbert  had 
he  ventui'ed  to  mention  Tess. 

His  mother  made  him  sandwiches,  and  his  father  accom- 
panied him,  on  his  own  mare,  a  little  way  along  the  road. 
Having  fau'ly  well  advanced  his  own  affairs,  Angel  listened 
in  a  willing  silence,  as  they  jogged  on  together  through  the 
shady  lanes,  to  his  father's  account  of  liis  parish  difficulties, 
and  the  coldness  of  brother  clergymen  whom  he  loved,  be- 
cause of  his  strict  interpretations  of  the  New  Testament 
by  the  light  of  what  they  deemed  a  pernicious  Calvinistic 
doctrine.  "  Pernicious  !  "  said  Mr.  Clare,  with  genial  scorn  j 
and  he  proceeded  to  recount  experiences  which  would  show 
the  absurdity  of  that  idea.  He  told  of  w^ondrous  conver- 
sions of  evil  livers  of  which  he  had  been  the  instrument, 
not  only  amongst  the  poor,  but  amongst  the  rich  and  well- 
to-do  ;  and  he  also  candidly  admitted  many  failures. 

As  an  instance  of  the  latter,  he  mentioned  the  case  of  a 
young  upstart  squire  named  D'Urberville,  living  some  forty 
miles  off,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Trantridge. 

"  Not  one  of  the  ancient  D'Urbervilles  of  Kingsbere  and 
other  places?"  asked  his  son.  ^'That  curiously  historic, 
worn-out  family,  with  its  ghostly  legend  of  the  coach-and- 
f  our  ? " 


188  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  Oil  no.  The  original  D'Urbervilles  decayed  and  disap- 
peared sixty  or  eighty  years  ago — at  least,  I  believe  so. 
This  seems  to  be  a  new  family  which  has  taken  the  name ; 
for  the  credit  of  the  former  knightly  line,  I  hope  they  are 
spiu'ious,  I'm  sure.  But  it  is  odd  to  hear  you  exj)ress  in- 
terest in  old  families.  I  thought  you  set  less  store  by  them 
even  than  I." 

"You  misapprehend  me,  father;  you  often  do/'  said 
Angel,  with  a  little  impatience.  "  Politically  I  am  sceptical 
as  to  the  virtue  of  theii-  being  old.  Some  of  the  wise  even 
among  themselves  ^  exclaim  against  their  own  succession,' 
as  Hamlet  puts  it ;  but  lyrically,  di'amatically,  and  even  his- 
torically, I  am  tenderly  attached  to  them." 

This  distinction,  though  by  no  means  a  subtle  one,  was 
yet  too  subtle  for  Mr.  Clare  the  elder,  and  he  went  on  with 
the  story  he  had  been  about  to  relate  ;  wliich  was  that  after 
the  death  of  the  senior  so-called  D'Urberville  the  young 
man  developed  the  most  reckless  passions,  though  he  had 
an  afflicted  mother  whose  condition  should  have  made  him 
know  better.  A  knowledge  of  his  career  having  come  to 
the  ears  of  Mr.  Clare,  when  he  was  in  that  part  of  the 
country  preaching  missionary  sermons,  he  boldly  took  oc- 
casion to  speak  to  him  point-blank  on  his  spii'itual  state. 
Though  he  was  a  stranger,  occupying  another's  pnlpit,  he 
had  felt  this  to  be  his  dnty,  and  took  for  his  text  the 
words  from  St.  LiLke,  "  Thou  fool,  this  night  thy  soul  shall 
be  required  of  thee."  The  young  man  much  resented  this 
directness  of  attack,  and  in  the  war  of  words  which  followed 
when  they  met  he  did  not  scruple  to  publicly  insult  Mr. 
Clare,  without  respect  for  his  gray  hau^s. 

Angel  flushed  with  distress.  "Dear  father,"  he  said, 
sadly,  "I  wish  you  wonld  not  expose  youi-seK  to  such 
gratuitous  pain  from  sconndrels !  " 

"  Pain  ? "  said  his  father,  his  rugged  face  shining  in  the 
ardor  of  self-abnegation.  "  The  only  pain  to  me  was  pain 
on  his  account,  poor,  foolish  young  man.     Do  you  suppose 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  189 

Ms  incensed  words  could  give  me  any  pain,  or  even  his 
blows  ?  '  Being  reviled  we  bless  5  being  persecuted  we  suf- 
fer it ;  being  defamed  we  entreat  j  we  are  made  as  the  filth 
of  the  world,  and  as  the  off  scorning  of  all  things  unto  this 
day.'  Those  ancient  and  noble  words  to  the  Corinthians 
are  strictly  true  at  this  present  hour." 

"  Not  blows,  father  f     He  did  not  proceed  to  blows  ? " 
"  No,  he  did  not.     Though  I  have  borne  blows  from  men 
in  a  mad  state  of  intoxication." 

"  A  dozen  times,  my  boy.  What  then  ?  I  have  saved 
them  from  the  guilt  of  murdering  their  own  flesh  and  blood 
thereby ;  and  they  have  lived  to  thank  me,  and  praise  God." 

"  May  this  young  man  do  the  same ! "  said  Angel,  fer- 
vently.    "  But  I  fear  othermse,  from  what  you  say." 

"  We'll  hope,  nevertheless,"  said  Mr.  Clare.  '^  And  I  con- 
tinue to  pray  for  him,  though  on  this  side  of  the  grave  we 
shall  probably  never  meet  again.  But,  after  all,  one  of 
those  poor  words  of  mine  may  spring  ivp  in  his  heart  as  a 
good  seed  some  day." 

Now,  as  always,  Clare's  father  was  sanguine  as  a  child  • 
and  though  the  younger  could  not  accept  his  parent's  narrow 
dogma,  he  revered  his  practice,  and  recognized  the  hero 
under  the  pietist.  Perhaps  he  revered  his  father's  practice 
even  more  now  than  ever,  seeing  that,  in  the  question  of 
making  Tess  his  wife,  his  father  had  not  once  thought  of 
inquii'ing  whether  she  were  well  provided  or  penniless. 
The  same  unworldliness  was  what  had  necessitated  Angel's 
getting  a  living  as  a  farmer,  and  would  probably  keep  his 
brothers  in  the  position  of  poor  parsons  for  the  term  of 
their  activities ;  yet  Angel  admired  it  none  the  less.  In- 
deed, despite  his  own  heterodoxy.  Angel  often  felt  that  he 
was  nearer  to  his  father  on  the  human  side  than  either  of 
his  brethren. 


190  TESS  OF   THE   D'URBEEVILLES. 


XXVII. 

An  up-liiU  and  down-dale  ride  of  twenty-odd  miles 
through  a  clear,  garish  midday  atmosphere  brought  him  in 
the  afternoon  to  a  detached  knoll  a  mile  or  two  west  of 
Talbothays,  whence  he  again  looked  into  that  green  trough 
of  sappiness  and  humidity,  the  valley  of  the  River  Var. 
Immediately  he  began  to  descend  from  the  upland  to  the 
fat  allu\dal  soil  below  the  atmosphere  gi'ew  heavier,  the 
languid  perfume  of  the  summer  fruits,  the  mists,  the  hay, 
the  flowers,  formed  therein  a  vast  pool  of  odor  which  at 
this  hour  seemed  to  make  the  animals,  the  very  bees  and 
butterflies,  di'owsy.  Clare  was  now  so  familiar  with  the 
spot  that  he  knew  the  individual  cows  by  their  names  when, 
a  long  distance  off,  he  saw  them  dotted  about  the  meads. 
It  was  with  a  sense  of  luxurv  that  he  was  conscious  of  his 
recently  acquired  power  of  viewing  hf e  here  from  its  inner 
side,  in  a  way  that  had  been  quite  foreign  to  him  in  his 
student-days ;  and,  much  as  he  loved  liis  parents,  he  could 
not  help  being  aware  that  to  come  here,  as  now,  after  an 
experience  of  home-life,  affected  him  like  throwing  off  sphnts 
and  bandages ;  even  the  one  customary  curb  on  the  humors 
of  English  rural  societies  being  absent  in  this  place,  Tal- 
bothays  having  no  resident  landlord. 

Not  a  human  being  was  out-of-doors  at  the  dairy.  The 
denizens  were  all  enjoying  the  usual  afternoon  nap  of  an 
horn-  or  so  which  the  exceedingly  early  hours  kept  in  sum- 
mer-tmie  rendered  a  necessity  to  those  engaged  in  the 
butter-making  trades.  At  the  door  the  wood-hooped  pails, 
sodden  and  bleached  by  infinite  scrubbings,  hung  like  hats 
on  a  stand  upon  the  forked  and  peeled  limb  of  the  oak 
fixed  there  for  that  purpose ;  aU  of  them  ready  and  dry  for 
the  evening  milking.     Angel  entered,  and  went  through  the 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  191 

silent  passages  of  the  house  to  the  back  quarters,  where  he 
hstened  for  a  moment.  Sustained  snores  came  from  the 
cart-house,  where  some  of  the  men  were  lying  down ;  the 
grunt  and  squeal  of  sweltering  pigs  arose  from  the  still 
farther  distance.  The  large-leaved  rhubarb  and  cabbage 
plants  slept  too,  their  broad  limp  sm'faces  hanging  in  the 
sun  like  haK-closed  umbrellas. 

He  unbridled  and  fed  his  horse,  and  as  he  re-entered  the 
house  the  clock  struck  three.  Three  was  the  afternoon 
skimming-hour ;  and,  shortly  after  the  stroke,  Clare  heard 
the  creaking  of  the  floor-boards  above,  and  then  the  touch 
of  a  descending  foot  on  the  staii's.  It  was  Tessas,  who  in 
another  moment  came  dowTi  before  his  eyes. 

She  had  not  heard  him  enter,  and  hardly  realized  his  pres- 
ence there.  She  was  yawning,  and  he  saw  the  red  interior 
of  her  mouth  as  if  it  had  been  a  snake's.  She  had  stretched 
one  arm  so  high  above  her  coiled-up  cable  of  hair,  that  he 
could  see  its  dehcacy  above  the  sunburn;  her  face  was 
flushed  with  sleep,  and  her  eyehds  hung  hea\'y  over  their 
pupils.  The  brim-fulness  of  her  nature  breathed  from  her. 
It  was  a  moment  wlien  a  woman's  soul  is  more  incarnate 
than  at  any  other  time ;  when  the  most  spiritual  beauty  in- 
clines to  the  corporeal  5  and  sex  takes  the  outside  place  in 
her  presentation. 

Then  those  eyes  flashed  brightly  through  their  filmy 
heaviness,  before  the  remainder  of  her  face  was  well  awake. 
With  an  oddly  compounded  look  of  gladness,  shyness,  and 
surprise,  she  exclaimed,  "  0  Mr.  Clare,  how  you  frightened 
me — I " 

There  had  not  at  first  been  time  for  her  to  think  of  the 
changed  relations  which  his  declaration  had  introduced; 
but  the  f uU  sense  of  the  matter  rose  up  in  her  face  when 
she  encountered  Clare's  tender  look  as  he  stepped  forward 
to  the  bottom  stau*. 

"  Dear,  darling  Tessie  ! "  he  whispered,  putting  his  arm 
round  her,  and  his  face  to  hers,     "  Don't,  for  Heaven's  sake, 


192  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER\^LLES. 

Mister  me  any  more.     I  have  hastened  back  so  soon  be- 
cause of  you ! " 

Tess's  excitable  heart  beat  against  his  by  way  of  reply ; 
and  there  they  stood  upon  the  red-brick  floor  of  the  entry, 
the  sun  slanting  in  by  the  window  of  the  front  room  and 
through  the  doorway  upon  his  back,  as  he  held  her  tiglitly 
to  his  breast,  upon  her  declining  face,  upon  the  blue  veins 
of  her  temple,  upon  her  arm,  and  her  neck,  and  into  the 
depths  of  her  hair.  Having  been  lying  down  in  her  clothes, 
she  was  warm  as  a  sunned  cat. 

At  first  she  would  not  look  straight  up  at  him,  but  her 
eyes  soon  lifted,  and  his  met  their  violet-black  deepness, 
while  she  regarded  him  as  Eve  at  her  second  waking  might 
have  regarded  Adam. 

''  I  have  to  go  skimming,"  she  pleaded,  "  and  I  have  on'y 
old  Deb  to  help  me  to-day.  Mrs.  Crick  is  gone  to  market 
wi'  Mr.  Crick,  and  Retty  is  not  well,  and  the  others  are 
gone  out  somewhere,  and  won't  be  home  till  milking." 

As  they  retreated  to  the  milk-house,  Deborah  Fyander 
appeared  on  the  stairs. 

"  I  have  come  back,  Deborah,"  said  Mr.  Clare,  upwards. 
"  So  I  can  help  Tess  with  the  skimming ;  and,  as  you  are 
tired,  I  am  sure,  you  needn't  come  down  till  milking-time." 

Possibly  the  Talbothays  milk  was  not  very  thorouglily 
skimmed  that  afternoon.  Tess  was  in  a  dream,  wherein 
famihar  objects  appeared  as  having  light  and  shade  and 
position,  but  no  particular  outline.  Every  time  she  held 
the  skimmer  under  the  pump  to  cool  it  for  the  work  her 
hand  trembled,  the  ardor  of  his  affection  being  so  palpable 
that  she  seemed  to  flinch  under  it  like  a  plant  in  too  burn- 
ing a  sun. 

Then  he  pressed  her  again  to  his  side,  and  when  she  had 
done  running  her  forefinger  round  the  leads  to  cut  off  the 
cream-edge,  he  cleaned  it  in  nature's  way,  for  the  uncon- 
strained manners  of  Talbothays  Dairy  came  convenient 
now. 


THE   CONSEQUENCE,  193 

"  I  may  as  well  say  it  now  as  later,  dearest,"  lie  resiimed, 
gently.  ''  I  w^sli  to  ask  you  something  of  a  very  practical 
natui'e,  wliicli  I  have  been  thinking  of  ever  since  that  day 
last  week  in  the  meads.  I  shall  soon  want  to  marry,  and, 
being  a  farmer,  you  see  I  shall  require  for  my  wife  a  wo- 
man who  knows  all  about  the  management  of  farms.  Will 
you  be  that  woman,  Tessie  ? "  He  put  it  in  that  way  that 
she  might  not  think  he  had  yielded  to  an  impulse  of  which 
his  head  would  disapprove. 

She  turned  quite  careworn.  She  had  bowled  to  the  in- 
evitable result  of  proximity,  the  necessity  of  loving  liim ; 
but  she  had  not  calculated  upon  this  sudden  corollary, 
which,  indeed,  Clare  had  put  before  her  without  quite  mean- 
ing himself  to  do  it  so  soon.  With  pain  that  was  like  the 
bitterness  of  dissolution,  she  murmured  the  words  of  her 
indispensable  and  sworn  answer — her  indispensable  and 
sworn  answer  as  an  honorable  woman.  "  O  Mr.  Clare — I 
cannot  be  your  wife — I  cannot  be  !  "  The  sound  of  her  own 
decision  seemed  to  break  Tess's  very  heart,  and  she  bowed 
her  face  in  her  gTief. 

"But,  Tess !  "  he  said,  amazed  at  her  reply,  and  holding 
her  still  more  gTcedily  close.  "Do  you  say  nof  Surely 
you  love  me  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  !  And  I  would  rather  be  yours  than  any- 
body's in  the  world,"  returned  the  sweet,  honest  voice  of 
the  distressed  girl.     "  But  I  cannot  marry  you." 

"Tess,"  he  said,  holding  her  at  arm's  length,  "you  are 
engaged  to  marry  some  one  else  !  " 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  Then  why  do  you  refuse  me  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry.  I  have  not  thought  o'  doing  it. 
I  cannot.     I  only  want  to  love  you." 

"  But  why  ? " 

Driven  to  subterfuge,  she  stammered :  "  Your  father  is  a 
parson,  and  your  mother  wouldn't  like  you  to  marry  such 
as  me.     She  will  want  you  to  many  a  lady." 

13 


194  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

'•Nonsense — I  have  spoken  to  tliem  both.  That  was 
partly  why  I  went  home." 

"  I  feel  I  cannot — never,  never !  "  she  echoed. 

"  Is  it  too  sndden  to  be  asked  thus^  my  Pretty  ? " 

"  Yes — I  did  not  expect  it." 

"If  you  mil  let  it  pass,  please,  Tessie,  I  ^^t11  give  you 
time/'  he  said.  "It  was  very  abrupt  to  come  home  and 
speak  to  you  all  at  once.  I'll  not  allude  to  it  again  for  a 
while."  She  again  took  up  the  shining  skimmer,  held  it 
beneath  the  pump,  and  began  anew.  But  she  could  not, 
as  at  other  times,  hit  the  exact  under-surface  of  the  cream 
with  the  dehcate  dexterity  requii^d,  try  as  she  might; 
sometimes  she  was  cutting  down  into  the  milk,  sometimes 
in  the  air.  She  could  hardly  see,  her  eyes  having  filled 
with  two  blurring  tears  drawn  forth  by  a  grief  which,  to 
this  her  best  friend  and  dear  advocate,  she  could  never 
explain. 

"  I  can't  skim — I  can't !  "  she  said,  tm-ning  away  from 
him. 

Not  to  agitate  and  hinder  her  any  longer,  the  gentle 
Clare  began  talking  in  a  more  general  way.  "  You  quite 
misapprehend  my  parents.  They  are  the  most  simple- 
mannered  people  alive,  and  quite  unambitious.  They  are 
two  of  the  few  remaining  Evangelical  school.  Tessie,  are 
you  an  Evangelical  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  go  to  church  very  regularly,  and  our  parson  here 
is  not  very  High,  they  teU  me." 

Tess's  ideas  on  the  views  of  the  parish  clergyman,  whom 
she  heard  every  w^eek,  seemed  to  be  rather  more  vague  than 
Clare's,  who  had  never  heard  him  at  all.  "  I  ynsh  I  could 
fix  my  mind  on  what  I  hear  more  firmly  than  I  do,"  she  re- 
marked.    "  It  is  often  a  great  sorrow  to  me." 

She  spoke  so  unaffectedly  that  Angel  was  sure  in  his 
heart  that  his  father  could  not  object  to  lier  on  rehgious 
grounds,  even  though  she  did  not  know  whether  her  priu- 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  195 

ciples  were  Higli,  Low,  or  Broad.  He  himself  knew  that, 
in  reality,  the  confused  beliefs  which  she  held,  apparently 
imbibed  in  childhood,  were,  if  anything,  Tractarian  as  to 
phraseology,  and  Pantheistic  as  to  essence.  Confused  or 
otherwise,  to  disturb  them  was  his  last  desire. 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Pleaven,  her  happy  views ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hiut  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

He  had  occasionally  thought  the  counsel  less  honest  than 
musical ;  but  he  gladly  conformed  to  it  now. 

He  spoke  further  of  the  incidents  of  his  visit,  of  his 
father's  mode  of  life,  of  his  zeal  for  his  principles  5  she 
grew  serener,  and  the  undulations  disappeared  from  her 
skimming;  as  she  finished  one  lead  after  another,  he  fol- 
lowed her,  and  di'ew  the  plugs  for  letting  down  the  milk. 

"  I  fancied  you  looked  a  little  downcast  when  you  came 
in,"  she  ventured  to  observe,  anxious  to  keep  away  from 
the  subject  of  herseK. 

"  Yes — well,  my  father  has  been  talking  a  good  deal  to 
me  of  his  troubles  and  difficulties,  and  the  subject  always 
tends  to  depress  me.  He  is  so  zealous  that  he  gets  many 
snubs  and  buifetings  from  people  of  a  different  way  of 
thinking  from  himself,  and  I  don't  like  to  hear  of  such 
humiliations  to  a  man  of  his  age,  the  more  particularly  as 
I  don't  think  earnestness  does  any  good  when  carried  so 
far.  He  has  been  telhng  me  of  a  very  unpleasant  scene  in 
which  he  took  part  cjuite  recently.  He  went  as  the  deputy 
of  some  missionary  society  to  preach  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Trantridge,  a  place  forty  miles  from  here,  and  made  it 
his  business  to  expostulate  with  a  j^oung  rake-hell  he  met 
with  somewhere  about  there — son  of  some  landowner  up 
that  way,  who  has  an  afflicted  mother.  My  father  ad- 
di'essed  himself  to  the  gentleman  point-blank,  and  there  was 
quite  a  disturbance.    It  was  very  foolish  of  my  father,  I 


196  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

must  say,  to  intrude  Ms  conversation  upon  a  stranger  wlien 
the  probabilities  were  so  obvious  that  it  would  be  useless. 
But  whatever  he  thinks  to  be  his  duty,  that  he'll  do,  in 
season  or  out  of  season ;  and,  of  course,  he  makes  many 
enemies  not  only  among  the  absolutely  vicious,  but  among 
the  easy-going,  who  hate  being  bothered.  He  says  he 
glories  in  what  happened,  and  that  good  may  be  done  in- 
dii-ectlv ;  but  I  wish  he  would  not  so  wear  himself  out  now 
that  he  is  getting  old,  and  would  leave  such  pigs  to  their 
wallowing." 

Tess's  look  had  grown  hard  and  worn,  and  her  ripe 
mouth  tragical ;  but  she  no  longer  showed  any  tremulous- 
ness.  Clare's  revived  thoughts  of  his  father  prevented  him 
noticing  her  particularly ;  and  so  they  went  on  do^^m  the 
white  row  of  liquid  rectangles  till  they  had  finished  and 
drained  them  off,  when  the  other  maids  returned,  and  took 
the  pails,  and  Deb  came  to  scald  out  the  leads  for  the  new 
milk.  As  Tess  withdrew,  to  go  a-field  to  the  cows,  he  said 
to  her  softly,  "And  my  question,  Tessie?" 

"  Oh  no — no  !  "  replied  she,  with  grave  firmness,  as  one 
who  heard  anew  the  moaning  and  turmoil  of  her  own  past 
in  the  allusion  to  Alec  D'Urber\'ille.    "  It  canH  be  !  " 

She  went  out  towards  the  mead,  joining  the  other  milk- 
maids with  a  bound,  as  if  trying  to  make  the  open  air  drive 
away  her  sad  constraint.  All  the  girls  drew  onward  to  the 
spot  where  the  cows  were  gi^azing  in  the  farther  mead,  the 
bevy  advancing  mth  the  bold  grace  of  wild  animals — the 
reckless  un chastened  motion  of  women  accustomed  to  un- 
hmited  space — in  which  they  abandoned  themselves  to  the 
air  as  a  swdmmer  to  the  wave.  It  seemed  natural  enough 
to  him  now  that  Tess  was  again  in  sight  to  choose  a  mate 
from  unconstrained  Nature,  and  not  from  the  abodes  of 
Ai-t. 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  197 


XXVIII. 

Her  refusal,  tliougli  unexpected,  did  not  permanently 
daunt  Clare.  His  experience  of  women  was  great  enough 
for  Mm  to  be  aware  that  the  negative  often  meant  nothing 
more  than  the  preface  to  the  affirmative ;  and  it  was  little 
enough  for  him  not  to  know  that  in  the  manner  of  the  pres- 
ent negative  there  lay  a  great  exception  to  the  dallyings  of 
co}Tiess.  That  she  had  already  permitted  him  to  make  love 
to  her  he  read  as  an  additional  assurance,  not  fully  trow- 
ing that  in  the  fields  and  pastures  to  "sigh  gratis"  is  by  no 
means  disesteemed ;  lov^e-making  being  here  more  often  ac- 
cepted inconsiderately  and  for  its  own  sweet  sake  than  in 
the  carking,  airxious  homes  of  the  ambitious,  where  a  girl's 
craving  for  an  establishment  paralyzes  her  natural  thought 
of  a  passion  as  an  end. 

"  Tess,  why  did  you  say  '  no '  in  such  a  positive  way  ? "  he 
asked  her  in  the  course  of  a  few  davs. 

She  started.  "  Don't  ask  me.  I  told  you — partly.  I  am 
not  good  enough — not  worthy  enough." 

^^  How  ?     Not  fine  lady  enough  ? " 

'^^Yes — something  like  that,"   murmured   she.      "Your 
friends  would  scorn  me." 

"  Indeed,  vou  mistake  them — mv  father  and  mother.     As 

for  my  brothers,  I  don't  care "     He  clasped  his  fingers 

behind  her  back  to  keep  her  from  slipping  away.  "  Now — 
you  did  not  mean  it.  Sweet  ? — I  am  sui'e  you  did  not !  You 
have  made  me  so  restless  that  I  cannot  read,  or  play,  or  do 
anji^hing.  I  am  in  no  hurry,  Tess,  but  I  want  to  know — 
to  hear  from  your  o^vn  warm  lips — that  you  will  some  day 
be  mine — any  time  you  may  choose ;  but  some  day  ? " 

She  could  only  shake  her  head  and  look  away  from  him. 

Clare  regarded  her  attentively,  conned  the  characters  of 


198  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBER'V  ILLES. 

her  face  as  if  they  had  been  hieroglyphics.  The  denial 
seemed  real.  ^'  Then  I  ought  not  to  hold  you  in  this  way — 
ought  I  ?  I  have  no  right  to  you — no  right  to  seek  out 
where  you  are,  or  walk  with  you  !  Honestly,  Tess,  do  you 
love  any  other  man  ? " 

"How  can  you  ask!''  she  said,  with  continued  self -sup- 
pression. 

"  I  almost  know  that  you  do  not.  But  then,  why  do  you 
repulse  me  ? '' 

''  I  don't  repulse  you.  I  like  you  to — tell  me  you  love 
me :  and  you  may  always  tell  me  as  you  go  about  with  me 
• — oh  yes,  you  may — and  never  offend  me  !  " 
"  But  you  mil  not  accept  me  as  a  husband  ?  " 
''Ah,  that's  different — it  is  for  3^our  good,  indeed,  my 
dearest !  O,  believe  me,  it  is  only  for  your  sake  !  I  don't 
like  to  give  myseK  the  great  happiness  o'  promising  to  be 
yours  in  that  way,  because — because  I  am  sure  I  ought  not 
to  do  it." 

''  But  you  will  make  me  happy  !  " 
"  Ah — ^you  think  so,  but  you  don't  know ! " 
At  such  times  as  this,  apprehending  the  gi^ounds  of  her 
refusal  to  be  her  sense  of  incompetence  for  the  position 
proper  to  the  wife  of  a  man  like  himself,  he  would  then  say 
that  she  was  wonderfully  well  informed  and  versatile — 
which  was  certainly  true,  her  natural  quickness,  and  her  ad- 
miration for  him,  having  led  her  to  pick  up  his  vocabulary, 
his  accent,  and  fragments  of  his  knowledge,  to  a  surjorising 
extent.  After  these  tender  contests,  as  they  may  be  called, 
and  her  victory,  she  would  go  away  by  herself  under  the 
remotest  cow,  if  at  milking-time,  or  into  the  sedge,  or  into 
her  room,  if  at  a  leisure  interval,  and  mourn  silentty,  not  a 
minute  after  an  apparently  phlegmatic  negative. 

The  struggle  was  so  fearful :  her  own  heart  was  so 
strongly  on  the  side  of  his — two  ardent  hearts  against  one 
poor  little  conscience — that  she  tried  to  fortify  her  resolu- 
tion by  eveiy  means  in  her  power.     She  had  come  to  Tal- 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  199 

bothays  wdth  a  made-up  mind.  On  no  account  could  she 
agree  to  a  step  wliicli,  by  reason  of  her  history,  might  cause 
bitter  rueing  to  her  husband  for  liis  blindness  in  Avedding 
her.  And  she  held  that  what  her  conscience  had  decided 
for  her  when  her  mind  w^as  unbiassed  ought  not  to  be  over- 
rided  now. 

For  two  or  three  days  no  more  was  said.  She  guessed 
from  the  sad  countenances  of  her  chamber  companions 
that  they  regarded  her  not  only  as  the  favorite,  but  as  the 
chosen ;  but  they  could  see  for  themselves  that  she  did  not 
put  herself  in  his  way. 

Tess  had  never  before  known  a  time  in  which  the  thread 
of  her  life  was  so  distinctly  twisted  of  two  strands,  positive 
pleasure  and  positive  pain.  At  the  next  cheese-making  the 
pair  were  again  left  alone  together.  The  dair}anan  him- 
self had  been  lending  a  hand ;  but  Mr.  Crick,  as  w^ell  as  his 
w^if  e,  seemed  latterly  to  have  acquired  a  suspicion  of  mutual 
interest  between  these  tw^o,  though  they  walked  so  circum- 
spectly that  suspicion  was  but  of  the  faintest.  Anyhow, 
the  dairyman  left  them  to  themselves. 

They  were  breaking  up  the  masses  of  curd  before  putting 
them  into  the  vats.  The  operation  resembled  the  act  of 
crumbhng  bread  on  a  large  scale ;  and  amid  the  immacu- 
late whiteness  of  the  curds  Tess  Durbevfield's  hands  showed 
themselves  of  the  pinkness  of  the  rose.  Angel,  w^ho  was 
filling  the  vats  with  his  handfuls,  suddenly  ceased,  and  laid 
his  hands  flat  upon  hers.  Bending  lower,  he  kissed  the  in- 
side vein  of  her  soft,  bare  arm. 

Although  the  early  September  weather  was  sultry,  her 
arm,  from  dabbling  in  the  curds,  was  as  cold  and  damp  to 
his  mouth  as  a  new^-gathered  mushroom,  and  tasted  of  the 
"whey.  But  she  was  such  a  sheaf  of  susceptibilities  that  her 
pulse  was  accelerated  by  the  touch,  her  blood  was  driven  to 
her  finger-ends,  and  the  cool  arms  flushed  hot.  Then,  as 
though  her  heart  had  said,  "  Is  coyness  longer  necessar}^  ? 
Truth  is  truth  between  man  and  woman^  as  between  man 


200  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

and  man/'  she  turned  up  lier  eyes,  and  they  beamed  de- 
Yotedl}^  into  his  as  her  hp  rose  in  a  tender  half -smile. 

^'  Do  yon  know  why  I  did  that,  Tess  ? "  he  said. 

'^  Because  you  love  me  very  much,"  she  replied. 

"  Yes,  and  as  a  preliminary  to  a  new  entreaty." 

''  Not  again ! "  She  looked  a  sudden  fear  that  her  resist- 
ance might  break  dow^i  under  her  o\^^l  desire. 

"  0  Tess !  "  he  went  on,  ''  I  cannot  think  why  you  are  so 
tantalizing.  Why  do  you  disappoint  me  so?  You  seem 
almost  like  a  coquette,  upon  my  life  you  do — a  coquette  of 
the  fii^st  ui'ban  water !  The}'  blow  hot  and  blow  cold,  just 
as  you  do  5  and  it  is  the  very  last  sort  of  thing  to  expect 
to  find  in  a  retreat  like  Talbothays.  .  .  .  And  yet,  dearest," 
he  quickly  added,  obser\T.ng  how  the  remark  had  cut  her, 
''  I  know  you  to  be  the  most  honest,  spotless  creature  that 
ever  hved.  So  how  can  I  suppose  you  a  flirt  ?  Tess,  why 
don't  you  like  the  idea  of  being  my  wife,  if  you  love  me  as 
you  seem  to  do  f " 

"  I  have  never  said  I  don't  like  the  idea,  and  I  never  could 
say  it ;  because — it  isn't  true  !  "  The  stress  now  getting  be- 
yond endm-ance,  her  lip  quivered,  and  she  was  obhged  to 
go  away. 

Clare  was  so  pained  and  perplexed  that  he  ran  after  and 
caught  her  in  the  passage.  "  Tell  me,  teU  me !  "  he  said, 
passionately  clasping  her,  in  forgetfulness  of  his  curdy 
hands,  "  do  tell  me  that  you  won't  belong  to  anybody  but 
me !  " 

^^  I  will,  I  will  tell  vou  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I  wiU 
give  you  a  complete  answer,  if  you  wiU.  let  me  go  now,  Mr. 
Clare.  I  will  tell  you  my  experiences — all  about  myself — 
all ! " 

"  Your  experiences,  dear ;  yes,  certainly ;  any  number." 
He  expressed  the  assent  in  loving  satire,  looking  into  her 
face.  ''  My  Tess  has,  no  doubt,  almost  as  many  experiences 
as  that  wild  convolvulus  out  there  on  the  garden  hedge, 
that  opened  itself  this  morning  for  the  fii'st  time.     TeU  me 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  201 

anything,  but  don't  use  that  wretched  expression  anj^  more 
about  not  being  worthy  of  me." 

''  I  TVT.11  not.  And  I'll  give  you  my  reasons  to-morrow — 
next  week " 

"  Say  on  Sunday  ? " 

"Yes,  on  Sunday." 

At  last  she  got  away,  and  did  not  stop  in  her  retreat  till 
she  was  in  the  thicket  of  pollard  willows  at  the  lower  side 
of  the  barton,  where  she  could  be  quite  unseen.  Here  Tess 
flung  herself  down  upon  the  rusthng  undergroT\i:h  of  spear- 
grass,  as  upon  a  bed,  and  remained  crouching  in  palpitating 
misery  broken  by  momentary  shoots  of  joy,  wliich  her  fears 
about  the  ending  could  not  altogether  suppress. 

In  reality,  she  was  drifting  into  acquiescence.  Every 
see-saw  of  her  breath,  every  wave  of  her  blood,  every  pulse 
singing  in  her  ears,  was  a  voice  that  joined  with  Nature  in 
revolt  against  her  scrupulousness.  Reckless,  inconsiderate 
acceptance  of  him  ;  to  close  with  him  at  the  altar,  reveahng 
nothing,  and  chancing  discovery  at  that  first  act  in  her 
drama;  to  snatch  ripe  pleasure  before  the  iron  teeth  of 
pain  could  have  time  to  shut  upon  her ;  that  was  what  love 
counselled ;  and  in  almost  a  terror  of  ecstasy  Tess  confusedly 
divined  that,  despite  her  many  months  of  lonely  self -chas- 
tisement, wrestlings,  communings,  schemes  to  lead  a  future 
of  austere  isolation,  love's  counsel  would  prevail. 

The  afternoon  advanced,  and  still  she  remained  among 
the  willows.  She  heard  the  rattle  of  the  pails  when  taken 
down  from  the  forked  stands ;  the  '^  waow-waow  !  "  which 
accompanied  the  getting  together  of  the  cows.  But  she  did 
not  go  to  the  milking.  They  would  see  her  agitation ;  and 
the  dairyman,  thinking  the  cause  to  be  love  alone,  would 
good-naturedly  tease  her ;  and  that  harassment  could  not 
be  borne. 

Her  lover  must  have  guessed  her  overwrought  state,  and 
invented  some  excuse  for  her  non-appearance,  for  no  in- 
quiiies  were  made  or  caUs  given.     At  half -past  six  the  sun 


202  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

settled  down  upon  the  levels^  with  the  aspect  of  a  gi-eat 
forge  in  the  heavens,  and  presently  a  monstrous  j)umpkin- 
like  moon  arose  on  the  other  hand.  The  pollard  willows, 
tortured  out  of  their  natural  shape  by  incessant  choppings, 
became  spiny-haired  monsters  as  they  stood  up  against  it. 
She  went  in — and  upstairs — without  a  light. 

It  was  now  Wednesday.  Thursday  came,  aud  Angel 
looked  thoughtfully  at  her  from  a  distance,  but  intruded  in 
no  way  upon  her.  The  indoor  milkmaids,  Marian  and  the 
rest,  seemed  to  guess  that  something  definite  was  afoot,  for 
they  did  not  force  any  remarks  upon  her  in  the  bed-cham- 
ber.    Friday  passed ;  Saturday.     To-morrow  was  the  day. 

''I  shall  gie  way — I  shall  say  yes — I  shall  let  myself 
marry  him — I  cannot  help  it !  "  she  suddenly  whispered, 
with  her  hot  face  to  the  pillow  that  night,  on  hearing  one 
of  the  other  gMs  sigh  his  name  in  her  sleep.  "I  can't 
bear  to  let  anybody  have  him  but  me  !  Yet  it  is  a  "WTong 
to  him,  and  may  kill  liim  when  he  knows  I  0  my  heart — 
0—0—0 ! " 


XXIX. 

'^  Now,  who  mid  ye  think  I've  heard  news  o'  this  morn- 
ing?" said  Dairyman  Crick,  as  he  sat  down  to  breakfast 
next  day,  with  a  riddling  gaze  round  upon  the  munching 
men  and  maids.     "Now  just  who  mid  ye  think?" 

One  guessed,  and  another  guessed.  Mrs.  Crick  did  not 
guess,  because  she  knew  already. 

"  Well,"  said  the  dairyman,  "'tis  that  slack-twisted  %ore's- 
bird  of  a  feller.  Jack  Dollop.  He's  lately  got  married  to  a 
widow- woman." 

"  Not  Jack  Dollop  ?  A  ^^llain  ?— to  think  o'  that !  "  said 
a.  milker. 

Tlie  name  entered  quickly  into  Tess  Durbeyfield's  con- 


i5 


\J1 


3 
O 

a 
o 

H 


2 


z 

2 

o 

o 

?3 


O 

d 

■a 
o 

2 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  203 

scioiisness,  for  it  was  the  name  of  the  lover  who  had  wronged 
his  sweetheart,  and  had  afterwards  been  so  roughly  used 
by  the  young  woman's  mother  in  the  butter-chui'n. 

''And  has  he  married  the  valiant  matron's  daughter,  as 
he  promised  ? "  asked  Angel  Clare,  absently,  as  he  turned 
over  the  newspaper  he  was  reading  at  the  little  table  to 
which  he  was  always  banished  l^y  Mrs.  Crick  in  her  sense 
of  his  gentility. 

''Not  he,  su'.  Never  meant  to,"  replied  the  daii'yman. 
"As  I  say,  'tis  a  widow- woman,  and  she  had  money,  it  seems 
— fifty  i^ounds  a  year  or  so ;  and  that  was  all  he  was  after. 
They  were  married  in  a  gi^eat  hurry;  and  then  she  told 
him  that  by  marrying  she  had  lost  her  fifty  pounds  a  year. 
Just  fancy  the  state  o'  my  gentleman's  mind  at  that  news  ! 
Never  such  a  cat-and-dog  life  as  they've  been  leading  ever 
since  !  Serves  him  well  beright.  But  onluckily  the  poor 
woman  gets  the  w^orst  o't." 

"  Well,  the  silly  body  should  have  told  him  sooner  that 
the  ghost  of  her  first  man  would  trouble  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Crick. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  responded  the  dairjTiian,  indecisively.  "  Still, 
you  can  see  exactly  how  it  was.  She  wanted  a  home,  and 
didn't  hke  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  him.  Don't  ye  think 
that  was  something  like  it,  maidens  ? "  He  glanced  towards 
the  row  of  gu4s. 

"  She  ought  to  ha'  told  him  just  before  they  went  to 
church,  when  he  could  hardly  have  backed  out,"  exclaimed 
Marian. 

"Yes,  she  ought,"  agreed  Izz. 

"  She  must  have  seen  what  he  was  after,  and  should  ha' 
refused  him  !  "  cried  Retty,  spasmodically. 

"  And  what  do  you  say,  my  dear  ? "  asked  the  dairjinan 
of  Tess.    "  Ought  women  to  tell  everything  at  such  times  ? " 

"I  think  she  ought — to  have  told  him  the  true  state  of 
things — or  else  refused  him — I  don't  know,"  replied  Tess, 
the  bread-and-butter  choking  her. 


204  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 


u 


Be  cnst  if  I'd  have  done  either  o't,"  said  Beck  Knibbs, 
a  married  helper  from  one  of  the  cottages.  "All's  fair  in 
love  and  war.  I'd  ha'  married  en  just  as  she  did,  and  if 
he'd  said  two  words  to  me  about  not  telling  him  beforehand 
an}i:hing  whatsomdever  about  my  first  chap  that  I  hadn't 
chose  to  tell,  I'd  ha'  knocked  him  down  m'  the  rolhng-pin — 
a  scram  little  fellow  like  he !     Any  woman  could  do  it." 

The  laughter  which  followed  tliis  sally  was  supplemented 
only  by  a  sorry  smile,  for  form's  sake,  from  Tess.  Wliat 
was  comedy  to  them  was  tragedy  to  her ;  and  she  could 
hardly  bear  their  mirth.  She  soon  rose  from  table,  and,  with 
an  impression  that  Clare  would  foUow  her,  she  went  along 
a  little  TNTigghng  path,  now  stepping  to  one  side  of  the  ir- 
rigating channels,  and  now  to  the  other,  till  she  stood  by 
the  main  stream  of  the  Var.  Men  had  been  *  cutting  the 
water-weeds  higlier  up  the  river,  and  masses  of  them  were 
floating  past  her — moving  islands  of  green  crowfoot,  on 
which  she  might  almost  have  ridden ;  long  locks  of  which 
weed  had  lodged  against  the  piles  driven  to  keep  the  cows 
from  crossing. 

Yes,  there  was  the  pain  of  it.  This  question  of  a  woman 
telling  her  story — the  heaviest  of  crosses  to  herself — seemed 
but  amusement  to  others.  It  was  as  if  people  should  laugh 
at  mart}T:'dom. 

"  Tess  !  "  came  from  behind  her,  and  Clare  sprang  across 
the  gully,  alighting  beside  her  feet.     "  My  mfe — soon  !  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  cannot.  For  your  sake,  dear  Mr.  Clare  j  for 
your  sake,  I  say  no." 

"  Tess ! " 

"  Still  I  say  no  !  "  she  repeated. 

Not  expecting  this,  he  had  put  his  arm  lightly  round  her 
waist  the  moment,  after  speaking,  beneath  her  hanging  tail 
of  hair.  (The  younger  daiiymaids,  including  Tess,  break- 
fasted wdth  their  hair  loose  on  Sunday  mornings,  before 
building  it  up  extra  high  for  attending  church,  a  style  they 
could  not  adopt  when  milking,  because  of  butting  their 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  205 

heads  against  the  cows.)  If  she  had  said  ^^Yes"  instead 
of  "No"  he  would  have  kissed  her;  it  had  evidently  been 
his  intention ;  but  her  determined  negative  deterred  his 
scrupulous  heart.  Theu'  condition  of  domiciliary  comrade- 
ship put  her,  as  the  woman,  to  such  disadvantage  by  its 
enforced  intercourse,  that  he  felt  it  to  be  unfair  to  her 
to  exercise  any  pressure  of  blandishment  which  he  might 
have  honestly  employed  had  she  been  better  able  to  avoid 
him.  He  released  her  momentarily  imprisoned  waist,  and 
withheld  the  kiss. 

It  aU  tui-ned  on  that  release  of  her.  What  had  given  her 
strength  to  refuse  him  this  time  was  solely  the  tale  of  the 
mdow  told  by  the  dairyman ;  and  that  would  have  been 
overcome  in  another  moment.  But  Angel  said  no  more ; 
his  face  was  perplexed ;  he  went  away. 

Day  after  day  they  met — somewhat  less  constantly  than 
before,  and  thus  two  or  three  weeks  went  by.  The  end  of 
September  drew  near,  and  she  could  see  in  his  eye  that  he 
meant  to  ask  her  again. 

His  plan  of  procedure  was  different  now.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  her  negatives  were, 
after  all,  only  the  result  of  coyness  and  youth,  startled 
by  the  novelty  of  the  proposal.  The  fitful  evasiveness  of 
her  manner  when  the  subject  was  under  discussion  counte- 
nanced the  idea.  So  he  played  a  more  coaxing  game ;  and 
while  never  going  beyond  words,  or  attempting  the  renewal 
of  caresses,  he  did  his  utmost  orally. 

In  this  way  Clare  persistently  wooed  her — with  quiet, 
never-ceasing  pressure — in  undertones  Like  that  of  the  purl- 
ing milk,  gently  yet  firmly — at  the  cow's  side,  at  skimmings, 
at  butter-makings,  at  cheese-makings,  among  broody  poul- 
try, and  among  farrowing  pigs — as  no  milkmaid  was  ever 
wooed  before  by  such  a  sort  of  man. 

Tess  knew  that  she  must  break  down.  Neither  convic- 
tions on  the  moral  validity  of  the  previous  union,  nor  a 
sense  of  fairness  to  Clare,  could  hold  out  against  it  much 


206  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

longer.  She  loved  hiin  so  passionateljj  and  he  was  so  god- 
Hke  in  her  eyes ;  and  being,  though  untrained,  instinctively 
refined,  her  natiu^e  cried  for  his  tutelary  guidance.  And 
thus,  though  Tess  kept  repeating  to  herself,  '''  I  can  never 
be  his  wife,-'  the  words  were  vain.  A  proof  of  her  weakness 
lay  in  the  very  utterance  of  what  calm  strength  would  not 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  formulate.  Every  sound  of  his 
voice  beginning  on  the  old  subject  stirred  her  with  a  terri- 
fying bhss,  and  she  coveted  the  recantation  she  feared. 

His  manner  was — what  man's  is  not  ? — so  much  that  of 
one  who  would  love  her,  and  cherish  her,  and  defend  her, 
under  any  conditions,  changes,  charges,  or  revelations,  that 
her  gloom  lessened  as  she  basked  in  it.  The  season  mean- 
while was  drawing  onward  to  the  equinox,  and  though  it 
was  still  fine,  the  days  were  much  shorter.  The  daiiy  had 
again  worked  by  morning  candle-light  for  a  long  time  5 
and  a  fresh  renewal  of  Clare's  pleading  occui'red  one  morn- 
ing between  three  and  four. 

She  had  run  up  in  her  bedgown  to  his  door  to  call  him 
as  usual  5  then  had  gone  back  to  di'ess  and  call  the  others ; 
and,  in  ten  minutes,  was  walking  to  the  head  of  the  stairs 
with  the  candle  in  her  hand.  At  the  same  moment,  he 
came  do\Mi  his  steps  from  the  landing  above  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, without  any  shoes,  and  put  his  arm  across  the 
staii'way. 

"  Now,  Miss  Flirt,  before  you  go  down,"  he  said,  peremp- 
torily. '^  It  is  a  fortnight  since  I  spoke,  and  this  won't  do 
any  longer.  You  nmst  tell  me  what  you  mean,  or  I  shall 
have  to  leave  this  house.  My  door  was  ajar  just  now,  and 
I  saw  you.  For  your  own  safety  I  must  go.  You  don't 
know.     Well  ?    Is  it  to  be  yes  at  last  ? " 

"I  am  only  just  up,  Mr.  Clare,  and — it  is  too  early  to 
take  me  to  task,"  she  pouted.  "  You  need  not  call  me  Flirt. 
'Tis  cruel  and  untrue.  Wait  till  by  and  by.  Please  wait 
till  by  and  by  !  I  will  really  think  seriously  about  it  be- 
tween  now  and  then.     Let  me  go  downstairs  !  " 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  207 

Slie  looked  a  little  like  v,4iat  lie  said  she  was,  as,  holding 
the  caudle  sideways,  she  tried  to  smile  away  the  seriousness 
of  her  words. 

"  Call  me  Angel,  then,  and  not  Mr.  Clare." 
"  Angel." 

"  Angel,  dearest — why  not  ? " 
a 'T would  mean  that  I  agree,  wouldn't  it  ? " 
'^  It  would  only  mean  that  3'ou  love  me,  even  if  you  can- 
not marry  me ;  and  you  were  so  good  as  to  own  that  long 


ago." 


"Very  well,  then,  ^Angel,  dearest,'  if  I  must,''^  she  mur- 
mured, looking  at  her  candle,  a  roguish  curl  coming  upon 
her  mouth,  notwithstanding  her  suspense. 

Clare  had  resolved  never  to  kiss  her  until  he  had  ob- 
tained her  promise ;  but  somehow,  as  Tess  stood  there  in 
her  prettily  tucked-up  milking-gown,  her  hair  carelessly 
heaped  upon  her  head  till  there  should  be  leism-e  to  arrange 
it  when  skimming  and  milking  were  done,  he  broke  his  re- 
solve, and  brought  his  lips  to  her  cheek  for  one  moment. 
She  passed  downstau-s  very  quickly,  never  looking  back 
at  him,  or  saving  another  word.  The  other  maids  were 
alread}'  down,  and  the  subject  was  not  pm-sued.  Except 
Marian,  they  all  looked  wistfully  and  suspiciously  at  the 
pau',  in  the  sad  yellow  rays  which  the  morning  candles 
emitted  in  contrast  with  the  fii'st  cold  signals  of  the  dawn 
without. 

TMien  skimming  was  done — which,  as  the  milk  dimin- 
ished with  the  approach  of  autumn,  was  a  lessening  process 
day  by  day — Retty  and  the  rest  went  out.  The  lovers  fol- 
lowed them. 

"Our  tremulous  lives  are  so  different  from  theii's,  are 
they  not?"  he  musingly  observed  to  her,  as  he  regarded 
the  tliree  figm-es  tripping  before  him  through  the  frigid 
pallor  of  opening  da}^ 

"  Not  so  very  different,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  ? " 


208  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  There  be  very  few  women's  lives  that  are  not — tremu- 
lous/' Tess  replied,  pausing  over  the  new  w^ord  as  if  it  im- 
pressed her.    "  There's  more  in  those  three  than  you  tliink." 

''What  is  in  them?" 

''Almost — either  of  'em/'  she  began  huskily,  "would 
make — perhaps  would  make — a  properer  wife  than  I.  And 
perhaps  they  love  you  as  well  as  I — almost." 

"  O  Tessie  !  " 

There  were  signs  that  it  was  an  exquisite  relief  to  her  to 
hear  the  impatient  exclamation,  though  she  had  resolved 
so  intrepidly  to  let  generosity  make  one  bid  against  her- 
self. That  was  now  done,  and  she  had  not  the  power  to 
attempt  self-immolation  a  second  time  then.  They  w^ere 
joined  by  a  milker  from  one  of  the  cottages,  and  no  more 
was  said  on  that  which  concerned  them  so  deeply.  But 
Tess  knew  that  this  day  would  decide  it. 

In  the  afternoon  several  of  the  dairyman's  household  and 
assistants  went  doT\m  to  the  meads  as  usual,  a  long  way 
from  the  dairy,  where  many  of  the  cows  were  milked  with- 
out being  driven  home.  The  supply  was  getting  less,  as 
the  animals  were  advancing  in  calf,  and  the  supernumerary 
milkers  of  the  lush  green  season  had  been  dismissed. 

The  work  progressed  leisurely.  Each  pailful  was  poured 
into  tall  cans  that  stood  in  a  large  spring  wagon  which  had 
been  brought  upon  the  scene ;  and  when  they  were  milked 
the  cows  trailed  awa}^ 

Dairyman  Crick,  who  was  there  with  the  rest,  his  wi'ap- 
per  gleaming  miraculously  white  against  the  leaden  evening 
sky,  suddenly  looked  at  his  heav}-  watch. 

"  Why,  'tis  later  than  I  thought,"  he  said.  "  Begad  !  We 
shan't  be  soon  enough  with  this  milk  at  the  station,  if  we 
don't  mind.  There's  no  time  to-day  to  take  it  home  and 
mix  it  with  the  T^ulk  afore  sending  off.  It  must  go  to  sta- 
tion straight  from  here.     Who'll  drive  it  across  ? " 

Mr.  Clare  volunteered  to  do  so,  though  it  was  none  of 
his  business,  asking  Tess  to  accompany  liim.     The  evening, 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  209 

tlioiigli  sunless,  had  been  warm  and  muggy  for  the  season, 
and  Tess  had  come  out  mth  her  milking-hood  only,  and 
naked-armed  and  jacketless ;  certainly  not  dressed  for  a 
drive.  She  therefore  replied  by  glancing  over  her  scant 
habiliments ;  but  Clare  gently  urged  her.  She  assented  by 
silently  relinquishing  her  pail  and  stool  to  the  dairyman  to 
take  home ;  and  mounted  the  spring  wagon  beside  Clare. 


In  the  diminishing  daylight  they  went  along  the  level 
roadway  through  the  meads,  which  stretched  away  into 
grayness,  and  were  backed  in  the  extreme  mist  of  distance 
by  the  swarthy  and  abrupt  slopes  of  Egdon  Heath.  On  its 
summit  stood  clumps  and  stretches  of  fii'-trees,  whose  tips 
formed  in  some  spots  a  saw-notched  line  upon  the  sky,  and 
in  others  appeared  like  battlemented  towers  cro^vning  black- 
fronted  castles  of  enchantment. 

They  were  so  absorbed  in  the  sense  of  being  close  to  each 
other  that  they  did  not  begin  talking  for  a  long  while,  the 
silence  being  broken  only  by  the  clucking  of  the  milk  in 
the  tall  cans  behind  them.  The  lane  they  followed  was  so 
solitar}^  that  the  hazel-nuts  had  remained  on  the  boughs 
till  they  slipped  from  theii-  shells,  and  the  blackberries  hung 
in  heav^^  clusters.  Every  now  and  then  Angel  would  fling 
the  lash  of  his  whip  round  one  of  these,  pluck  it  off,  and 
give  it  to  his  companion. 

The  dull  sky  soon  began  to  tell  its  meaning  by  sending 

down  herald  drops  of  rain,  and  the  stagnant  air  of  the  day 

changed  into  a  fitful  breeze  which  played  about  theh^  faces. 

The  quicksilvery  glaze  on  the  rivers  and  pools  vanished ; 

from  broad  m^irrors  of  light  they  changed  to  lustreless 

sheets  of  lead,  with  a  surface  like  a  rasp.     But  that  specta- 
14 


210  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

cle  did  not  affect  her  preoccupation.  Her  countenance^  a 
natui'al  carnation  slightly  embrowned  by  the  season,  had 
deepened  its  tinge  with  the  beating  of  the  rain-di-ops,  and 
a  portion  of  her  hair,  which  the  pressure  of  the  cows'  flanks 
had,  as  usual,  caused  to  tumble  down  from  its  fastenings, 
hung  below  the  curtain  of  her  calico  bonnet ;  and  the  rain 
began  to  make  it  clammy,  till  it  hardly  was  better  than  sea- 
weed. 

'^  I  ought  not  to  have  come,  I  suppose,"  she  murmured, 
looking  at  the  sky. 

"  I  am  Sony  for  the  rain,"  said  he.  "  But  how  glad  I  am 
to  have  you  here  !  " 

Remote  Egdon  disappeared  by  degrees  behind  the  liquid 
gauze.  The  evening  grew  darker,  and  the  road  being  crossed 
by  gates,  it  was  not  safe  to  drive  faster  than  at  a  walking 
pace.     The  air  was  rather  chill. 

''  I  am  so  afraid  you  will  get  cold,  with  nothing  upon  your 
arms  and  shoulders,"  he  said,  surveying  her.  ''  Creep  close 
to  me,  and  perhaps  it  won't  hurt  you  much.  I  should  be 
sorrier  still  if  I  did  not  think  that  the  rain  might  be  helping 
me." 

She  imperceptibly  crept  closer,  and  he  wi*apped  round 
them  both  a  large  piece  of  sail-cloth  which  was  sometimes 
used  to  keep  the  sun  off  the  milk-cans.  Tess  held  it  from 
slipping  off  him  as  well  as  herself,  Clare's  hands  being  oc- 
cupied. 

"  Now  we  are  all  right  again.  Ah — no,  we  are  not !  It 
runs  down  into  my  neck  a  little,  and  it  must  still  more  into 
yours.  That's  better.  Your  arms  are  like  wet  marble,  Tess. 
Wipe  them  in  the  cloth.  Now,  if  you  stay  quiet,  you  will 
not  get  another  drop.  Well,  dear — about  that  question  of 
mine — that  long-standing  question  ? " 

Tlie  only  reply  that  he  could  hear  for  a  while  was  the 
smack  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  moistening  road  and  the 
cluck  of  the  milk  in  the  cans  behind  them. 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  said f " 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  211 

"  I  do/'  she  replied. 

'^  Before  we  get  home,  miiid." 

"  I'll  trv." 

He  said  no  more  then.  As  they  drove  the  fragment  of 
an  old  manor-house  of  Caroline  date  rose  against  the  sky, 
and  was  in  due  course  passed  and  left  behind. 

"  That,"  he  observed,  to  entertain  her,  "  is  an  interesting 
old  place — one  of  the  several  seats  which  belonged  to  an 
ancient  Norman  family,  formerly  of  great  influence  in  this 
county — the  D'Urbervilles.  I  never  pass  one  of  their  resi- 
dences without  thinking  of  them.  There  is  something  very 
sad  in  the  extinction  of  a  family  of  renown,  even  if  it  is 
fierce,  domineering,  feudal  renown." 

"Yes,"  said  Tess. 

They  crept  along  towards  a  point  in  the  expanse  of  shade 
before  them  at  which  a  feeble  light  was  beginning  to  assert 
its  presence,  a  spot  where,  by  day,  a  fitful  white  streak  of 
steam  at  intervals  upon  the  dark  green  background  denoted 
intermittent  moments  of  contact  between  their  secluded 
world  and  modern  life.  Modern  life  stretched  out  its  steam 
feeler  to  this  point  three  or  fom'  times  a  day,  touched  the 
native  existences,  and  quickly  withdrew  its  feeler  again,  as 
if  what  it  touched  had  been  uncongenial. 

They  reached  the  feeble  light  which  came  from  the  smoky 
lamp  of  a  httle  railway  station ;  a  poor  enough  terrestrial 
star,  yet  in  one  sense  of  more  importance  to  Talbothays 
Dairv  and  mankind  than  the  celestial  ones  to  which  it  stood 
in  such  humiliating  contrast.  The  cans  of  new  milk  were 
unladen  in  the  rain,  Tess  getting  a  little  shelter  from'  a 
neighboring  holly-tree. 

Then  there  was  the  hissing  of  a  train,  which  drew  up 
almost  silently  upon  the  wet  rails,  and  the  milk  was  rapidly 
lifted  into  the  van.  The  hght  of  the  engine  flashed  for  a 
second  upon  Tess  Durbeyfield's  figure,  motionless  mider 
the  great  holly-tree.  No  object  could  have  looked  more 
foreign  to  the  gleaming  cranks  and  wheels  than  this  un- 


212  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER^TI.LES. 

sophisticated  gii'l,  with  the  round  bare  arms,  the  rainy  face 
and  hair,  the  suspended  attitude  of  a  friendly  leopard  at 
pause,  the  cotton  gown  of  no  date  or  fashion,  and  the  wing- 
bonnet  drooping  on  her  brow. 

She  mounted  again  beside  her  lover,  mth  a  mute  obe- 
dience characteristic  of  impassioned  natures  at  times,  and 
when  they  had  wrapped  themselves  up  over  head  and  ears 
in  sail-cloth  again,  they  plunged  back  into  the  now  thick 
night.  Tess  was  so  receptive  that  the  few  minutes  of  con- 
tact with  the  whirl  of  material  progress  lingered  in  her 
thoughts. 

'^  Londoners  will  drink  it  at  their  breakfasts  to-morrow, 
won't  they?"  she  asked.  "Strange  people  that  we  have 
never  seen." 

"  Yes — I  suppose  they  will.  Though  not  as  we  send  it. 
When  its  strength  has  been  lowered,  so  that  it  may  not  get 
up  into  their  heads." 

'^  Noble  men  and  noble  women,  ambassadors  and  centu- 
rions, ladies  and  tradeswomen,  and  babies  who  have  never 
seen  a  cow." 

"  Well,  3^es ;  perhaps ;  particularly  centui'ions." 

"T\'T:io  don't  know  anything  of  us,  and  where  it  comes 
from ;  or  think  how  we  two  drive  miles  across  the  moor 
to-night  in  the  rain  that  it  might  reach  'em  in  time  ? " 

"  We  did  not  drive  entirely  on  account  of  these  precious 
Londoners ;  we  drove  a  httle  on  our  o^Y^l — on  account  of 
that  anxious  matter  which  you  -v^dll,  I  am  sure,  set  at  rest, 
dear  Tess.  Now,  permit  me  to  put  it  in  this  way.  You 
belong  to  me  already,  you  know;  your  heart,  I  mean. 
Does  it  not?" 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I.     Oh  yes — yes  !  " 

"  Then,  if  your  heart  does,  why  not  your  hand  ? " 

"  My  only  reason  was  on  account  of  you — on  account  of 
a  question.     I  have  something  to  teU  you " 

"  But  suppose  it  to  be  entirely  for  my  happiness,  and  my 
worldly  convenience  also  ? " 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  213 

"  Oh  yes ;  if  it  is  for  your  happiness  and  worldly  con- 
venience.    But  my  life  afore  I  came  here — I  want " 

"  Well,  it  is  for  my  convenience  as  well  as  my  happiness. 
If  I  have  a  very  large  farm,  either  English  or  Colonial,  you 
will  be  invaluable  as  a  wife  to  me ;  better  than  a  woman 
out  of  the  largest  mansion  in  the  country.  So  please — 
please,  dear  Tess — disabuse  yom^  mind  of  the  feehng  that 
you  '^tlII  stand  in  my  way." 

"  But  my  history.  I  want  you  to  know  it — you  must  let 
me  tell  you — vou  will  not  like  me  so  well !  " 

"  Tell  it  if  you  wish  to,  dearest.  This  precious  history, 
then.     Yes,  I  was  born  at  so-and-so.  Anno  Domini " 

"  I  was  born  at  Marlott,"  she  said,  catching  at  his  words 
as  a  help,  lightly  as  they  were  spoken.  "And  I  grew  up 
there.  And  I  was  in  the  Sixth  Standard  when  I  left  school, 
and  they  said  I  had  great  aptness,  and  should  make  a  good 
teacher,  so  it  was  settled  that  I  should  be  one.  But  there 
was  trouble  in  my  family ;  my  father  was  not  very  indus- 
trious, and  he  drank  a  httle." 

''  Yes,  yes.  Poor  child !  Nothing  new."  He  pressed  her 
more  closely  to  his  side. 

"  And  then — there  is  something  very  unusual  about  it — 
about  me."     Tess's  breath  cpuckened. 

"  Yes,  dearest.     Never  mind." 

'^  I — I  .  .  .  am  not  a  Durbevfield,  but  a  D'Urberville — 
a  descendant  of  the  old  family  that  owned  the  house  we 
passed.     And — we  be  all  gone  to  nothing !  " 

"  A  D'Urberville !  .  .  .  Indeed !  And  is  that  aU  the 
trouble,  dear  Tess  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  faintly. 

"  Well,  why  should  I  love  you  less  after  knowing  this  ? " 

"  I  was  told  by  the  dairyman  that  you  hated  old  families." 

He  laughed.  "  Well,  it  is  true,  in  one  sense.  I  do  hate 
the  aristocratic  principle  of  blood  before  everji^hing,  and  do 
think  that  the  only  pedigTees  we  ought  to  resjject  as  reason- 
ers  are  those  spiritual  ones  of  the  wise  and  virtuous,  with- 


214  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

out  regard  to  corporeal  paternity.  But  I  am  extremely  in- 
terested in  this  news — yon  can  have  no  idea  how  interested 
I  am.  Ai'e  not  you  interested  youi'self  in  being  one  of 
that  well-known  Hne  ? " 

"  I  have  thought  it  interesting — once  or  twice,  especially" 
since  coming  here,  and  knowing  that  many  of  the  liills  and 
fields  I  see  once  belonged  to  my  father's  people.  But  other 
hills  and  fields  belonged  to  Retty's  people,  and  perhaps 
others  to  Marian's,  so  that  I  don't  value  it  iDarticularly." 

"  Yes — it  is  surprising  how  many  of  the  present  tillers  of 
the  soil  were  once  owners  of  it,  and  I  sometimes  wonder 
that  a  certain  school  of  jDohticians  don't  make  capital  of 
the  circumstance ;  but  they  don't  seem  to  know  it.  ...  I 
wonder  that  I  did  not  see  the  resemblance  of  your  name  to 
D'Urber\dlle,  and  trace  the  manifest  conniption.  And  this 
was  the  carking  secret !  " 

At  the  last  moment  her  courage  had  failed  her,  she  feared 
his  blame  for  not  telling  him  sooner ;  and  her  instinct  of 
self-preservation  was  stronger  than  her  candor. 

"Of  coui'se,"  continued  the  imwitting  Clare,  "I  should 
have  been  glad  to  know  you  to  be  descended  exclusively 
from  the  long-suffering,  dumb,  unrecorded  rank  and  file  of 
the  English  nation,  and  not  from  the  self-seeking  few  who 
made  themselves  powerful  at  the  expense  of  the  rest.  But 
I  am  corrupted  away  from  that  by  my  affection  for  you, 
Tess  [he  laughed  as  he  spoke],  and  made  selfish  likewise. 
For  your  own  sake  I  rejoice  in  your  descent.  Society  is 
hopelessly  snobbish,  and  this  fact  of  your  extraction  may 
make  an  appreciable  difference  to  its  acceptance  of  you  as 
my  wife,  after  I  have  made  you  the  w^ell-read  woman  that 
I  mean  to  make  you.  My  mother,  too,  poor  soul,  will  think 
so  much  better  of  you  on  account  of  it.  Tess,  joii  must 
spell  your  name  correctly — D'Urberville — from  this  very 
day." 

"  I  like  the  other  way  rather  best." 

"  But  you  must,  dearest !     Good  heavens  !  why,  dozens  of 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  215 

mushroom  millionaires  would  jump  at  such  a  possession ! 
By  the  by,  there's  one  of  that  kidney  who  has  taken  the 
name — where  ha\'e  I  heard  of  him  ? — up  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  The  Chase,  I  think.  Why,  he  is  the  very  man  who 
had  that  rumpus  with  my  father  I  told  you  of.  What  an 
odd  coincidence ! " 

"  Angel,  I  think  I  would  rather  not  take  the  name  !  It 
is  unlucky,  perhaps."     She  was  agitated. 

"Now  then,  ^Mistress  Tess  D'Urberville,  I  have  you. 
Take  my  name,  and  so  you  will  escape  youi's  !  The  secret 
is  out,  so  whv  should  vou  anv  lono-er  refuse  me?" 

^'  If  it  is  sure  to  make  you  happy  to  have  me  as  your 
wife,  and  you  feel  that  you  do  wish  to  marry  me,  very,  very 
much '' 

"  I  do,  dearest,  of  com'se  !  " 

"  I  mean,  that  it  is  only  youi'  wanting  me  very  much,  and 
being  hardly  able  to  keep  alive  without  me,  whatever  my 
offence  is,  that  would  make  me  feel  I  ought  to  say  I  will." 

''  You  will — vou  do  sav  it,  I  know.  You  ^dU  be  mine 
forever  and  ever."     He  clasped  her  close  and  kissed  her. 

"  Yes."  She  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  she  burst  into  a 
dry,  hard  sobbing,  so  violent  that  it  seemed  to  rend  her. 
Tess  was  not  a  hysterical  giii  by  any  means,  and  he  was 
surprised. 

''  Why  do  you  cry,  dearest  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell — quite  ! — I  am  so  glad  to  think — of  being 
yours,  and  making  you  happy." 

'•  But  this  doesn^t  seem  very  much  like  gladness,  my 
Tessie." 

"  I  mean — I  cry  because  I  have  broken  down  in  my  vow  ! 
I  said  I  would  die  unmarried." 

''  But,  if  you  love  me,  you  would  Hke  me  to  be  your  hus- 
band ? " 

'^  Yes,  yes,  yes !  But  0,  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  never 
been  born ! " 

"  Xow,  my  dear  Tess,  if  I  did  not  know  that  you  are 


216  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

very  much  excited,  and  very  inexperienced,  I  should  say 
that  remark  was  not  very  comj)limentary.  How  came  you 
to  wish  that  if  you  care  for  me  ?  Do  you  care  for  me  ?  I 
wish  you  would  prove  it  in  some  way." 

"How  can  I  prove  it  more  than  I  have  done?"  she  cried, 
in  a  distraction  of  tenderness.  "  Will  this  prove  it  more  ? " 
She  clasped  his  neck,  and  for  the  first  time  Clare  learnt 
what  an  impassioned  woman's  kisses  were  like  upon  the 
lips  of  one  whom  she  loved  with  all  her  heart  and  soul,  as 
Tess  loved  him.  "  There — now  do  you  beheve  ? "  she  asked, 
wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Yes.     I  never  i*eally  doubted — never,  never  !  " 

So  they  di-ove  on  tlirough  the  gloom,  forming  one  bundle 
inside  the  sail-cloth,  the  horse  going  as  he  would,  and  the 
rain  di'iving  against  them.  She  had  consented.  She  might 
as  well  have  agreed  at  first.  The  "  appetite  for  joy,"  which 
stimulates  all  creation  ;  that  tremendous  force  which  sways 
humanity  to  its  purpose,  as  the  tide  sways  the  helpless 
weed,  was  not  to  be  controlled  by  vague  lucubrations  over 
the  social  rubric. 

"  I  must  write  to  my  mother,"  she  said.  "  You  don't 
mind  my  doing  that  ? " 

"  Of  course  not,  dear,  dear  child.  You  are  a  child  to  me, 
Tess,  not  to  know  how  very  proper  it  is  to  ^VYite  to  your 
mother  at  such  a  time,  and  how  wrong  it  would  be  in  me  to 
object.     Where  does  she  live  ? " 

'^At  the  same  place — Marlott.  On  the  farther  side  of 
Blackmoor  Vale." 

"  Ah,  then  I  have  seen  you  before  this  summer " 

"  Yes ;  at  that  dance  on  the  green.  But  you  would  not 
dance  with  me.  O,  I  hope  that  is  of  no  ill-omen  for  us 
now ! " 


THE  CONSEQUENCE,  217 


XXXI. 

Tess  "wrote  a  most  toucliing  and  urgent  letter  to  her 
niotlier  the  very  next  day,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week  a  re- 
sponse to  her  communication  arrived  in  Joan  Durbeyfield's 
wandering,  last-century  hand. 

"Dear  Tess, — 

"  J  write  these  few  lines  hoping  they  will  find  you  well, 
as  they  leave  me  at  present,  thank  God  for  it.  Dear  Tess, 
we  are  all  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  really  going  to  be  mar- 
ried soon.  But  with  respect  to  your  question,  Tess,  J  say 
between  ourselves,  quite  private  but  very  strong,  that  on 
no  account  do  you  say  a  word  of  your  bygone  trouble  to 
him.  J  did  not  tell  everything  to  youi-  father,  he  being  so 
proud  on  account  of  his  respectability,  which,  perhaps,  your 
Jntended  is  the  same.  Many  a  woman — some  of  the  High- 
est in  the  Land — have  had  a  Trouble  in  their  time  5  and 
why  should  you  Trumpet  yours  when  others  don't  Trumpet 
theirs  ?  No  girl  would  be  such  a  fool,  especially  as  it  is  so 
long  ago,  and  not  your  Fault  at  all.  J  shall  answer  the 
same  if  you  ask  me  Fifty  Times.  Besides,  you  must  bear 
in  mind  that,  knowing  it  to  be  your  childish  nature  to  tell 
all  that's  in  your  heart — so  simple  ! — J  made  you  promise 
me  never  to  let  it  out  by  Word  or  Deed,  having  your  Wel- 
fare in  my  Mind ;  and  you  solemnly  did  promise  going 
from  this  Door.  J  have  not  mentioned  either  that  question 
or  your  combing  marriage  to  your  father,  as  he  would  blab 
it  everywhere,  poor  Simple  Man. 

"  Dear  Tess,  keep  up  your  Spirits,  and  we  mean  to  send 
you  a  Hogshead  of  Cider  for  your  wedding,  knowing  there 
is  not  much  in  your  parts,  and  thin  Sour  Staff  what  there 


218  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

is.     So  no  more  at  present,  and  with  kind  love  to  your 
Young  Man, 

^'  From  voiu*  affectionate  Motlier, 

"J.  DURBEYFIELD." 

"  O  mother,  mother  !  "  mui-mured  Tess. 

She  was  recognizing  how  light  was  the  touch  of  events 
the  most  oppressive  upon  Mrs.  Diu'beyfield's  elastic  spirit. 

Her  mother  did  not  see  life  as  Tess  saw  it.  That  haunt- 
ing experience  of  the  past,  of  which  the  scar  still  remained 
upon  her  soul,  concealed  as  it  might  be  by  overgrowi:hs, 
was  to  her  mother  but  a  passing  accident.  But  perhaps 
her  mother  was  right  as  to  the  course  to  l)e  f  ollow^ed,  what- 
ever she  might  be  in  her  reasons.  Silence  seemed,  on  the 
face  of  it,  best  for  her  adored  one's  happiness :  silence  it 
should  be. 

Thus  steadied  hj  sl  command  from  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  had  any  shadow  of  right  to  control  her  action, 
Tess  grew  calmer.  The  responsibility  was  shifted,  and  her 
heart  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  weeks.  The  days  of 
declining  autumn  which  followed  her  assent,  beginning  mth 
the  month  of  October,  formed  a  season  through  which  she 
lived  in  spiritual  altitudes  more  nearly  approaching  ecstasy. 
than  any  other  period  of  her  life. 

There  was  hardly  a  touch  of  earth  in  her  love  for  Clare. 
To  her  sublime  trustfulness  he  was  all  that  goodness  could 
be — knew  all  that  a  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  should 
know.  She  thought  every  Une  in  the  contour  of  his  person 
the  perfection  of  masculine  beauty,  his  soul  the  soul  of  a 
saint,  his  intellect  that  of  a  seer.  The  wisdom  of  her  love 
for  him,  as  love,  sustained  her  dignity ;  she  seemed  to  be 
wearing  a  cro\\ai.  The  compassion  of  his  love  for  her,  as 
she  saw  it,  made  her  lift  up  her  heart  to  him  in  devotion. 
He  would  sometimes  catch  her  large,  worshipful  eyes,  that 
had  no  l)ottom  to  them,  looking  at  him  from  their  depths, 
as  if  she  saw  something  immortal  before  her. 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  219 

She  dismissed  the  past — trod  upon  it  and  put  it  out,  as 
one  treads  on  a  coal  that  is  smouldering  and  dangerous. 

She  had  not  known  that  men  coidd  be  so  disinterested, 
chivalrous,  protective,  in  theu'  love  for  women  as  he. 
Angel  Clare  was  far  from  all  that  she  thought  him  in  this 
respect  j  but  he  was,  in  truth,  more  spiritual  than  animal ; 
he  had  himself  well  in  hand,  and  was  singularly  free  from 
grossness.  Though  not  cold-natured,  he  was  rather  bright 
than  hot — less  Byronic  than  Shelleyan ;  could  love  desper- 
ately, but  his  love  more  especially  inchned  to  the  imagina- 
tive and  ethereal ;  it  was  a  fastidious  emotion  which  could 
jealously  guard  the  loved  one  against  his  very  self.  This 
amazed  and  enraptured  Tess,  whose  slight  ej^periences  had 
been  so  inf ehcitous  till  now  ]  and  in  her  reaction  from  in- 
dignation against  the  male  sex  she  swerved  to  excess  of 
honor  for  Clare. 

They  unaffectedly  sought  each  other's  company ;  in  her 
honest  faith  she  did  not  disguise  her  desii'e  to  be  with  him. 
The  sum  of  her  instincts  on  tliis  matter,  if  clearly  stated, 
would  have  been  that  the  elusive  quality  in  her  sex  which 
attracts  men  in  general  must  be  distasteful  to  so  perfect  a 
man  after  an  avowal  of  love,  since  it  must  in  its  verv  nature 
carry  with  it  a  suspicion  of  art. 

The  country  custom  of  unreserved  comradeship  out-of- 
doors  dimng  betrothal  was  the  only  custom  she  knew,  and 
to  her  it  had  no  strangeness ;  though  it  seemed  oddly  an- 
ticipative  to  Clare  till  he  saw  how  normal  a  thing  she,  in 
common  with  all  the  other  dairy-folk,  regarded  it.  Thus, 
during  this  October  month  of  wonderful  afternoons  they 
roved  along  the  meads  b}^  creeping  paths  which  followed 
the  brinks  of  trickling  tributary  brooks,  hopping  across  by 
little  wooden  bridges  to  the  other  side,  and  back  again. 
They  were  never  out  of  the  sound  of  some  purling  weii', 
whose  buzz  accompanied  their  own  murmuring,  while  the 
beams  of  the  sun,  almost  as  horizontal  as  the  mead  itself, 
formed  a  pollen  of  radiance  over  the  landscape.     They  saw 


220  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

tiny  blue  fogs  in  the  shadows  of  trees  and  hedges  all  the 
time  that  there  was  bright  sunshine  elsewhere.  The  sun 
was  so  near  the  ground,  and  the  sward  so  flat,  that  the 
shadows  of  Clare  and  Tess  would  stretch  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  ahead  of  them,  like  two  long  fingers  pointing  afar  to 
where  the  green  alluvial  reaches  abutted  against  the  sloping 
sides  of  the  vale. 

Men  were  at  work  here  and  there — for  it  was  the  season 
for  "  taking  up  "  the  meadows,  or  digging  the  little  water- 
ways clear  for  the  mnter  irrigation,  and  mending  their 
banks  where  trodden  down  by  the  cov/s.  The  shovelfuls 
of  loam,  black  as  jet,  brought  there  by  the  river  when  it 
was  as  wide  as  the  whole  valley,  wxre  an  essence  of  soils, 
pounded  champaigns  of  the  past,  steej)ed,  refined,  and  sub- 
tilized to  extraordinarv  richness,  out  of  which  came  all  the 
fertility  of  the  mead,  and  of  the  cattle  grazing  there. 

Clare  hardily  kept  his  arm  round  her  waist  in  sight  of 
these  watermen,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  accustomed 
to  pubUc  dalliance,  though  actually  as  shy  as  she  who,  with 
lips  parted  and  eyes  askance  on  the  laborers,  wore  the  look 
of  a  wary  animal  the  while. 

"You  are  not  ashamed  of  owning  me  as  yours  before 
them  ? "  she  said,  gladly. 

"  Oh  no— no  !  " 

"  But  if  it  should  reach  the  ears  of  your  friends  at  Em- 
minster  that  you  be  walking  about  like  this  mth  me,  a 
milkmaid " 

"  The  most  bewitching  milkmaid  ever  seen." 

"  They  might  feel  it  a  hurt  to  their  dignity." 

"My  dear  girl — a  D'Urber\ille  hurt  the  dignity  of  a 
Clare  !  It  is  a  grand  card  to  play — that  of  your  belonging 
to  such  a  family,  and  I  am  reser\dng  it  for  a  grand  effect 
when  we  are  married,  and  have  the  proofs  of  your  descent 
from  Parson  Tringham.  Apart  from  that,  my  future  is  to 
be  totally  foreign  to  my  family's — it  will  not  affect  even  the 
surface  of  their  lives.     We  shall  leave  this  part  of  England 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  221 

— perhaps  England  itself — and  what  does  it  matter  how 
people  regai'd  us  here  ?    You  will  like  going,  will  you  not  ? " 

She  could  answer  no  more  than  a  bare  affirmative,  so 
great  was  the  emotion  aroused  in  her  at  the  thought  of  go- 
ing through  the  world  with  him  as  his  own  familiar  friend. 
Her  feelings  ahnost  filled  her  ears  like  a  babble  of  waves, 
and  sm'ged  up  to  her  eyes.  She  put  her  hand  in  his,  and 
thus  they  went  on,  to  a  place  where  the  reflected  sun  glared 
up  from  the  river,  under  a  bridge,  with  a  molten-metallic 
glow  that  dazzled  their  eyes,  though  the  sun  itself  was 
hidden  by  the  bridge.  They  stood  still,  whereupon  little 
furred  and  feathered  heads  popped  uj)  from  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  water ;  but,  finding  that  the  disturbing  pres- 
ences had  paused  and  not  passed  by,  they  disappeared 
again.  Upon  this  river-brink  they  lingered  till  the  fog 
began  to  close  round  them — which  was  very  early  in  the 
evening  at  this  time  of  the  year — settling  on  the  lashes  of 
her  eyes,  where  it  rested  like  crystals,  and  on  his  brows 
and  hair. 

They  walked  later  on  Sundays,  when  it  was.  quite  dark. 
Some  of  the  daiiy-people,  who  were  also  out-of-doors  on 
the  fii'st  Sunday  evening  after  their  engagement  was  sus- 
pected, heard  her  impulsive  speeches,  ecstasized  to  frag- 
ments, though  they  were  too  far  off'  to  hear  the  words  dis- 
coursed ;  heard  the  spasmodic  catch  in  her  remarks,  broken 
into  syllables  by  the  leapings  of  her  heart  between  joy  and 
fear,  as  she  walked  leaning  on  his  arm ;  noted  her  con- 
tented pauses,  the  occasional  httle  laugh,  upon  which  her 
soul  seemed  to  ride — the  laugh  of  a  woman  in  company 
with  the  man  she  loves  and  has  won  from  all  other  women 
— unlike  anything  else  in  civilization.  They  saw  the  buoy- 
ancv  of  her  tread,  like  the  skim  of  a  bird  which  has  not 
quite  alighted. 

Her  affection  for  him  was  now  the  breath  and  life  of 
Tess's  being ;  it  enveloped  her  as  a  photosphere,  ii-radiated 
her  into  forgetfulness  of  her  past  sorrows,  keeping  back 


222  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

the  gloomy  spectres  that  would  persist  in  their  attempts  to 
touch  her — doubt,  fear,  moodiness,  care,  shame.  She  knew 
that  they  were  waiting  like  wolves  just  outside  the  circum- 
scribing light,  but  she  had  long  spells  of  power  to  keep 
them  in  hungry  subjection  there. 

A  spu'ituai  forgetfulness  coexisted  with  an  intellectual 
remembrance.  She  walked  in  bi'ightness,  but  she  knew  that 
in  the  background  those  shapes  of  darkness  were  always 
spread.  They  might  be  receding,  or  they  might  be  ap- 
proaching, one  or  the  other,  a  little  every  day. 

One  evening  Tess  and  Clare  were  obliged  to  sit  indoors 
keeping  house,  all  the  other  occupants  of  the  domicile  being 
away.  As  they  talked  she  looked  admiringly  up  at  him, 
and  met  his  two  appreciative  eyes. 

"  I  am  not  worth}^  of  you — no,  I  am  not !  "  she  bui'st  out, 
jumping  up  from  her  low  stool  with  ^\ald  suddenness,  as 
though  appalled  at  liis  homage,  and  the  fulness  of  her  o^ti 
joy  thereat. 

Clare,  deeming  the  whole  basis  of  her  excitement  to  be 
that  which  was  only  the  smaller  part  of  it,  said,  ''  I  won't 
have  you  speak  like  it,  dear  Tess !  Distinction  does  not 
consist  in  the  facile  use  of  a  contemptible  set  of  conven- 
tions, but  in  being  numbered  among  those  who  are  true, 
and  honest,  and  just,  and  pure,  and  lovely,  and  of  good  re- 
port— as  you  are,  my  Tess." 

She  struggled  with  the  sob  in  her  throat.  How  often 
had  that  string  of  excellences  made  her  young  heart  ache 
in  church  of  late  years,  and  how  strange  that  he  should 
have  cited  them  now. 

"  Wliy  didn't  you  stay  and  love  me  when  I — was  sixteen ; 
living  with  my  little  sisters  and  brothers,  and  you  danced 
on  the  green  ?  0,  why  didn't  you,  why  didn't  you  !  "  she 
cried,  impetuously  clasping  her  hands. 

Angel  began  to  soothe  and  reassure  her,  thinking  to 
himself,  truly  enough,  what  a  creature  of  moods  and  im- 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  223 

pulses  slie  was,  and  hoAv  careful  he  would  have  to  be  of 
her  when  she  depended  for  her  happiness  entu*ely  on 
him. 

''  Ah — why  didn't  I  come  !  "  he  said,  sentimentally.  ^'  That 
is  just  what  I  feel.  If  I  had  only  known  !  But  you  must 
not  be  so  bitter  in  your  regret — why  should  you  be  ? " 

With  the  woman's  instinct  to  hide  compromising  events, 
she  answered  hastily : 

"  I  should  have  had  three  vears  more  of  vour  heart  than 
I  can  ever  have  now.  Then  I  should  not  have  wasted  my 
time  as  I  have  done — I  should  have  had  so  much  longer 
happiness." 

It  was  no  mature  woman  with  a  long  dark  vista  of  in- 
trigue l^ehind  her  who  was  tormented  thus  by  her  past ;  but 
a  girl  of  simple  life,  not  yet  one-and-twenty,  who  had  been 
caught  during  her  days  of  immaturity  like  a  bird  in  a 
springe.  To  calm  herself  the  more  completely,  she  arose 
from  her  little  stool  and  left  the  room,  overturning  the 
stool  with  her  skirts  as  she  went. 

He  sat  on  by  the  cheerful  fii-elight  thrown  from  a  bundle 
of  green  ash-sticks  laid  across  the  dogs ;  the  sticks  snapped 
pleasantly,  and  hissed  out  bubbles  of  sap  from  theii*  ends. 
When  she  came  back  she  was  herself  again. 

^^  Do  you  not  think  you  are  just  a  wee  bit  capricious,  fit- 
ful, Tess  ? "  he  said,  good-humoredly,  as  he  spread  a  cushion 
for  her  on  the  stool,  and  seated  himself  in  the  settle  beside 
her.  "I  wanted  to  ask  you  something,  and  just  then  you 
ran  awav." 

^'Yes,  perhaps  I  am  capricious,"  she  murmui'ed.  She 
suddenly  approached  him,  and  put  a  hand  upon  each  of  his 
arms.  ''  No,  Angel,  I  bain't  really  so — by  nature,  I  mean  !  " 
The  more  particularly  to  assure  him  that  she  was  not, 
she  placed  herself  close  to  him  in  the  settle,  and  allowed 
her  head  to  find  a  resting-place  against  Clare's  shoulder. 
''  What  did  3'ou  want  to  ask  me — I  am  sure  I  T\aQ  answer 
it,"  she  continued,  humblv. 


224  TESS   OF   THE   D'UKBERVILLES. 


li 


Well,  you  love  me,  and  have  agreed  to  many  me,  and 
hence  there  follows  a  thirdly,  ^  When  shall  the  day  be  ? ' " 

'^  I  like  living  like  this." 

^^Bnt  I  must  think  of  starting  in  business  on  my  own 
hook  with  the  new  year,  or  a  little  later.  And  before  I  get 
involved  in  the  multifarious  details  of  my  new  position,  I 
should  like  to  have  secured  my  partner." 

'^  But,"  she  timidly  answered,  "  to  speak  quite  practically, 
wouldn't  it  be  best  not  to  marry  tiU  after  all  that  ? — though 
I  can't  bear  the  thought  o'  youi'  going  away  and  leaving 
me  here ! " 

"  Of  course  you  cannot — and  it  is  not  best  in  this  case. 
I  want  you  to  help  me  in  many  waj^s  in  making  my  start. 
When  shall  it  be  ?    Why  not  a  fortnight  from  now  ? " 

"  No,"  she  said,  becoming  grave ;  "  I  have  so  many  things 
to  think  of  first." 

"  But "     He  drew  her  gently  nearer  to  him. 

The  reality  of  marriage  was  startling  now  that  it  loomed 
so  near.  Before  discussion  of  the  question  had  proceeded 
further,  there  walked  round  the  corner  of  the  settle  into  the 
full  firelight  of  the  apartment  Mr.  Dauyman  Crick,  Mrs. 
Crick,  and  two  of  the  milkmaids. 

Tess  sprang  like  an  elastic  ball  from  his  side  to  her  feet, 
while  her  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  shone  in  the  fireliglit. 

'^  I  knew  how  it  would  be  if  I  sat  so  close  to  him  !  "  she 
cried,  with  vexation.  "I  said  to  myself,  they  are  sure  to 
come  and  catch  us  !  But  I  wasn't  really  sitting  on  his  knee, 
though  it  might  have  seemed  as  if  I  was  almost !  " 

"Well — if  so  be  you  hadn't  told  us,  I  am  sure  we 
shouldn'  ha'  noticed  that  you  had  been  sitting  anywhere  at 
aU,  in  this  light,"  replied  the  dairyman.  He  continued  to 
his  wife,  with  the  mien  of  a  man  who  understood  nothing 
of  the  emotions  relating  to  matrimony :  ''  Now,  Christian- 
ner,  that  shows  that  folk  should  never  fancy  other  folks 
be  supposing  things  when  they  bain't.     Oh  no,  I  should 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  225 

never  ha'  tlioiight  of  her  sitting  on  his  knee  if  she  hadn't 
told  me — not  I/' 

''  We  are  going  to  be  married  soon/'  said  Clare,  with  im- 
provised phlegm. 

"  Ah — and  be  ye  !  Well,  I  am  truly  glad  to  hear  it,  sir. 
I've  thonght  yon  mid  do  such  a  thing  for  some  time.  She's 
too  good  for  a  dairjonaid — I  said  so  the  very  iii'st  day  I  saw 
her — and  a  prize  for  any  man ;  and  what's  more,  a  wonder- 
ful woman  for  a  gentleman-farmer's  wife ;  he  w^on't  be  at 
the  mercy  of  his  baily  wi'  her  at  his  side." 

Somehow  Tess  disappeared.  She  had  been  even  more 
struck  with  the  look  of  the  girls  who  followed  Crick  than 
abashed  by  Crick's  blunt  praise. 

After  supper,  when  she  reached  her  bedroom,  they  were 
all  present.  A  light  was  burning,  and  each  girl  was  sit- 
ting up  in  her  bed,  awaiting  Tess,  the  whole  like  a  row  of 
avenging  ghosts. 

But  she  saw  in  a  few  moments  that  there  was  no  malice 
in  theh^  mood.  They  could  scarcely  feel  as  a  loss  what  they 
had  never  expected  to  have.  Their  condition  was  objective, 
contemplative. 

^'  He's  going  to  marry  her !  "  mui'miu-ed  Retty,  never  tak- 
ino'  her  eves  off  Tess.     "  How  her  face  do  show  it !  " 

''You  he  going  to  marry  liim?"  asked  Marian. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tess. 

''  When  ?  " 

"  Some  day,  perhaps." 

They  thought  that  this  was  evasiveness  only.  "Yes — go- 
ing to  marry  him — a  gentleman  !  "  repeated  Izz  Huett.  And 
by  a  sort  of  fascination  the  three  girls,  one  after  another, 
crept  out  of  theii*  beds,  and  came  and  stood  barefooted 
round  Tess.  Retty  put  her  hands  upon  Tess's  shoulders,  as 
if  to  realize  her  friend's  corporeality  after  such  a  miracle, 
and  the  other  two  laid  their  arms  round  her  waist,  all  look- 
ing into  her  face. 

15 


226  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

'''  How  it  do  seem !  Almost  more  than  I  can  think  of !  " 
said  Izz  Huett. 

Marian  kissed  Tess.     ^'  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"  Was  that  because  of  h)ve  for  her,  or  because  other  lips 
touched  there  b}^  now  ? "  continued  Izz,  diyly,  to  Marian. 

^'  I  wasn't  thinking  o'  that,"  said  Marian,  sinijDly.  •'  I  was 
on'y  feeling  all  the  strangeness  o't — that  she  is  to  be  his 
wife,  and  nobody  else.  I  don't  say  nay  to  it^  nor  either  of 
us,  because  we  did  not  think  of  it — only  loved  him.  Still, 
nobody  else  is  to  maiTy  him  in  the  world — no  fine  lady, 
nobody  in  jewels  and  gold,  in  silks  and  satins  j  but  she 
who,  do  live  like  w^e." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  dislike  me  for  it?"  said  Tess,  in 
a  low  voice. 

They  hung  about  her  in  their  flowing  white  nightgowns 
before  replying,  as  if  they  considered  their  answer  might 
lie  in  her  look.  "  I  don't  know — I  don't  know/'  murmured 
Retty  Priddle.     "  I  want  to  hate  'ee )  but  I  cannot !  " 

"That's  how  I  feel,"  echoed  Izz  and  Marian.  "I  can't 
hate  her.     Somehow  she  do  hinder  me  !  " 

"  He  ought  to  marry  one  of  you,"  murmured  Tess. 

■"  Why  ? " 

"  You  are  aU  better  than  I." 

"We  better  than  you?"  said  the  gii'ls,  in  a  low,  slow 
whisper.     "  No,  no,  dear  Tess  !  " 

"  You  are  !  "  she  contradicted,  impetuously.  And  sud- 
denly tearing  away  from  their  clinging  arms,  she  burst 
into-  a  hysterical  fit  of  tears,  bowing  herself  on  the  chest  of 
dra^^ers,  and  repeating  incessantly,  "  Oh  yes,  yes,  3^es  !  " 

Haying  once  given  way,  she  could  not  stop  her  weeping. 

"He -ought  to  have  had  one  of  you  !  I  think  I  ought  to 
make  hiin  even  now !  You  would  be  better  for  him  than 
— I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying.    O  !  O  !  " 

They  went  up  to  her  and  clasped  her  round,  but  still  her 
sobs  tore  her.  "Get  some  water,"  said  Marian.  "She's 
upset  by  us,  poor  thing,  poor  thing !  "    They  gentty  led  her 


"they  hcxg  about  hkr  in  their  flowing  white  nightgowns." 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  227 

back  to  the  side  of  her  bed,  where  they  kissed  her  warmly. 
"  You  are  best  for'n/'  said  Marian.  ''  More  ladylike,  and  a 
better  scholar  than  we,  especially  since  he  has  taught  'ee 
so  much.  But  even  you  ought  to  be  proud.  You  he  proud, 
I'm  sui'e !  '^ 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  said  -,  "  and  I  am  ashamed  at  so  break- 
ing down ! " 

When  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  the  light  was  out,  Marian 
whispered  across  to  her,  "  You  will  think  of  us  when  you 
be  his  wife,  Tess,  and  of  how  we  told  'ee  that  we  loved  him, 
and  how  we  tried  not  to  hate  you,  and  did  not  hate  you, 
and  could  not  hate  you,  because  you  were  his  choice,  and 
we  never  hoped  to  be  chose  by  him." 

They  were  not  aware  that,  at  these  words,  salt,  stinging 
tears  trickled  down  upon  Tess's  pillow  anew,  and  how  she 
resolved,  with  a  bui'sting  heart,  to  tell  all  her  history  to 
Angel  Clare,  despite  her  mother's  command — to  let  him  for 
whom  she  lived  and  breathed  despise  her  if  he  would,  and 
her  mother  regard  her  as  a  fool,  rather  than  preserve  a 
silence  which  might  be  deemed  a  treachery  to  him,  and 
which  somehow  seemed  a  wrong  to  these. 


XXXII. 

This  penitential  mood  kept  her  from  naming  the  wedding- 
day.  The  beginning  of  November  found  its  date  still  in 
abeyance,  though  he  asked  her  at  the  most  tempting  times. 
But  Tess's  desh'e  seemed  to  be  for  a  perpetual  betrothal,  in 
which  everything  should  remain  as  it  was  then. 

The  meads  were  changing  now ;  but  it  was  still  warm 
enough  in  early  afternoons  before  milking  to  idle  there 
awhile,  and  the  state  of  daiiy-work  at  this  time  of  year  al- 
lowed a  spare  hour  for  idhng.     Looking  over  the  damp  sod 


228  TESS  OF  THE  D'UKBERVILLES. 

in  the  direction  of  the  sun,  a  ghstening  ripple  of  gossamer- 
webs  was  visible  to  their  eyes  under  the  luminary,  hke  the 
track  of  moonlight  on  the  sea.  Gnats,  knowing  nothing  of 
their  brief  glorification,  wandered  across  the  air  above  this 
pathway,  irradiated  as  if  they  bore  fire  within  them,  then 
passed  out  of  its  hue,  and  were  quite  extinct.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  these  things  he  would  remind  her  that  the  date 
was  stni  the  question. 

Or  he  would  ask  her  at  night,  when  he  accompanied  her 
on  some  mission  invented  by  Mrs.  Crick  to  give  him  the 
opportunity.  This  was  mostly  a  jom^ney  to  the  farmhouse 
on  the  slopes  above  the  vale,  to  inquire  how  the  advanced 
cows  were  getting  on  in  the  straw-barton  to  which  they 
were  relegated.  For  it  was  a  time  of  the  year  that  brought 
gi'eat  changes  to  the  world  of  kine.  Batches  of  the  animals 
were  sent  away  daily  to  this  lying-in  hospital,  where  they 
lived  on  straw  till  their  calves  were  born,  after  which  event, 
and  as  soon  as  the  calf  could  walk,  mother  and  offspring 
were  driven  back  to  the  dairy.  In  the  interval  which  elapsed 
before  the  calves  were  sold  there  was,  of  course,  little  milk- 
ing to  be  done,  but  as  soon  as  the  calf  had  been  taken  away 
the  milkmaids  would  have  to  set  to  work  as  usual. 

Returning  from  one  of  these  dark  walks,  they  reached  a 
gi^eat  gravel-cM  immediately  over  the  levels,  where  they 
stood  still  and  listened.  The  water  was  now  high  in  the 
streams,  squu'ting  through  the  weirs,  and  tinkling  under 
culverts ;  the  smallest  gulleys  were  all  full ;  there  was  no 
taking  short  cuts  anj'wdiere,  and  foot-passengers  were  com- 
pelled to  foUow  the  permanent  ways.  From  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  invisible  vale  came  a  multitudinous  intonation  5 
it  forced  upon  the  fancy  that  a  gi'eat  city  lay  below  them, 
and  that  the  murmur  was  the  vociferation  of  its  populace. 

"  It  seems  like  tens  of  thousands  of  them,"  said  Tess ; 
"  holding  public  meetings  in  their  market-places,  arguing, 
preaching,  quarrelling,  sobbing,  groaning,  praying,  and 
cursing," 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  229 

Clare  was  not  particularly  heeding.  ^^Did  Crick  speak 
to  you  to-day,  dear,  about  his  not  wanting  much  assistance 
during  the  winter  months  ? '' 

^'No." 

"  The  cows  are  going  diy  rapidly." 

"  Yes/'  she  answered.  "  Six  or  seven  went  to  the  straw- 
barton  yesterday,  and  three  the  day  before,  making  near 
twenty  in  the  straw  already.  Ah — is  it  that  the  farmer 
don't  want  my  help  for  the  cahdng  ?  O,  I  am  not  wanted 
here  any  more  !     And  I  have  tried  so  hard  to " 

"Crick  didn't  exactly  say  that  he  would  no  longer  re- 
quire you.  But,  knowing  what  oiu*  relations  were,  he  said, 
in  the  most  good-natured  and  respectful  manner  possible, 
that  he  supposed,  on  my  leaving  at  Christmas,  I  should  take 
you  with  me,  and  on  my  asking  what  he  would  do  without 
you,  he  merely  observed  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a 
time  of  year  when  he  could  do  with  a  very  little  female 
help.  I  am  afraid  I  was  sinner  enough  to  feel  rather  glad 
that  he  was  in  this  way  forcing  your  hand." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  felt  glad.  Angel.  Be- 
cause 'tis  always  mournful  not  to  be  wanted,  even  if  at  the 
same  time  'tis  convenient." 

"Well,  it  is  convenient — you  have  admitted  that."  He 
put  his  finger  upon  her  cheek.     "  Ah !  "  he  said. 

"Wliat?" 

"  I  feel  the  red  rising  up  at  her  having  been  caught ! 
But  why  should  I  trifle  so  !  We  will  not  trifle — life  is  too 
seiious." 

"  It  is — I  saw  that  before  you  did." 

She  was  seeing  it  then.  To  dechne  to  many  him  after 
all — in  obedience  to  her  emotion  of  last  night — and  leave 
the  dairy,  meant  to  go  to  some  strange  place,  not  a  daiiy ; 
for  milkmaids  were  not  in  request  now  calving-time  was 
coming  on ;  to  go  to  some  arable  farm,  where  no  divine  being 
like  Angel  Clare  was.  She  hated  the  thought,  and  she 
hated  more  the  thought  of  going  home. 


230  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"So  that,  seriously,  dearest  Tess,"  he  continued,  "since 
you  will  probably  have  to  leave  at  Christmas,  it  is  in  every 
way  desii-able  and  convenient  that  I  should  carry  you  off 
then  as  my  property.  Besides,  if  you  were  not  the  most 
uncalculating  girl  in  the  world  you  would  know  that  we 
could  not  go  on  like  this  forever." 

"  I  wish  we  could.  That  it  would  always  be  summer  and 
autumn,  and  you  always  courting  me,  and  always  thinking 
as  much  of  me  as  you  have  done  through  the  past  summer- 
time ! " 

"  I  always  shall." 

"  O,  I  know  you  will !  "  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  fervor  of 
faith  in  him.  "  Angel,  I  will  fix  the  day  when  I  will  be- 
come yours  for  always."  Thus  at  last  it  was  aiTanged  be- 
tween them,  during  that  dark  walk  home,  amid  the  myriads 
of  liquid  voices  on  the  right  and  left. 

When  they  reached  the  dairy  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crick  were 
promptly  told — with  injunctions  to  secrecy ;  for  each  of  the 
lovers  was  desirous  that  the  marriage  should  be  kept  as 
private  as  possible.  The  dairyman,  though  he  had  thought 
of  dismissing  her  soon,  now  made  a  great  concern  about 
losing  her.  What  should  he  do  about  his  skimming  ?  Who 
would  make  the  ornamental  butter-pats  for  the  Melchester 
and  Sandboui'ne  ladies?  Mrs.  Crick  congratulated  Tess 
on  the  shilly-shallying  having  at  last  come  to  an  end,  and 
said  that  directly  she  set  eyes  on  Tess  she  di\dned  that  she 
was  to  be  the  chosen  one  of  somebody  who  was  no  common 
outdoor  man ;  Tess  had  looked  so  genteel  and  superior  as 
she  walked  across  the  barton  on  that  afternoon  of  her  ar- 
rival ;  that  she  was  of  a  good  family  she  could  have  sworn. 
In  point  of  fact,  Mrs.  Crick  did  distinctly  remember  think- 
ing that  Tess  was  unusually  gi'aceful  and  pretty  as  she  ap- 
proached ;  as  for  the  gentility  and  superiority,  they  might 
have  been  a  growth  of  the  imagination  aided  by  subsequent 
knowledge. 

Tess  was  now  carried  along  upon  the  wings  of  the  hours, 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  231 

wdtlioiit  the  sense  of  a  will.  The  word  had  been  given; 
the  number  of  the  day  written  down.  Her  naturally  bright 
intelligence  had  begun  to  admit  the  fatalistic  convictions 
common  to  field-folk  and  those  who  associate  more  exten- 
sively with  natm-al  phenomena  than  with  their  fellow- 
creatures;  and  she  accordingly  drifted  into  that  passive 
responsiveness  to  all  things  her  lover  suggested^  character- 
istic of  the  frame  of  mind. 

But  she  wrote  anew  to  her  mother^  ostensibly  to  notify 
the  wedding-day;  really  to  again  implore  her  advice.  It 
was  a  gentleman  who  had  chosen  her,  which  perhaps  her 
mother  had  not  sufficiently  considered.  A  post-nuptial  ex- 
planation, which  might  be  accepted  with  a  light  heart  by  a 
rougher  man,  might  not  be  received  with  the  same  feeling 
by  him.  But  this  communication  brought  no  reply  from 
Mrs.  Durbeyfield. 

Despite  Angel  Clare's  plausible  representations  to  himself 
and  to  Tess  of  the  practical  need  for  theii'  immediate  mar- 
riage, there  was,  in  truth,  an  element  of  precipitancy  in  the 
step,  as  became  apparent  at  a  later  date.  He  loved  her 
dearly,  though  perhaps  rather  ideally  and  fancifully  than 
with  the  impassioned  thoroughness  of  her  feeling  for  him. 
He  had  entertained  no  notion,  w^hen  doomed,  as  he  had 
thought,  to  an  unintellectual  bucolic  life,  that  such  charms 
as  he  beheld  in  this  idvllic  creature  w^ould  be  found  behind 
the  scenes.  Unsophistication  was  a  thing  to  talk  of ;  but 
he  had  not  known  how  it  really  struck  one  until  he  came 
here.  But  he  was  very  far  from  seeing  his  future  track 
clearly,  and  it  might  be  a  year  or  two  before  he  would  be 
able  to  consider  himself  fairlv  started  in  life.  The  secret 
lay  in  the  tinge  of  recklessness  imparted  to  his  career  and 
character  by  the  sense  that  he  had  been  made  to  miss  his 
true  destiny  through  the  prejudices  of  his  family. 

''  Don't  vou  think  'twould  ha'  been  better  for  us  to  wait 
till  you  w^ere  quite  settled  in  your  midland  farm ! "  she  once 
asked  timidly.     (A  midland  farm  was  the  idea  just  then.) 


232  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

^'To  tell  tlie  truth,  my  Tess,  I  don't  like  you  to  be  left 
anywhere  away  from  my  influence  and  sympathy." 

The  reason  was  a  good  one,  so  far  as  it  went.  His  in- 
fluence over  her  had  been  so  marked  that  she  had  caught 
his  manner  and  habits,  his  speech  and  phrases,  his  likings 
and  his  aversions.  And  to  leave  her  in  farm-land  would 
be  to  let  her  slip  back  again  out  of  accord  with  him.  He 
wished  to  have  her  under  his  charge  for  another  reason. 
His  parents  had  naturally  desired  to  see  her  once  at  least 
before  he  carried  her  off  to  a  distant  settlement,  English  or 
Colonial;  and  as  no  opinion  of  theirs  w^as  to  be  allowed  to 
change  his  intention,  he  judged  that  a  couple  of  months' 
life  with  him  in  lodgings  whilst  seeking  for  an  advantageous 
opening  would  be  of  some  social  assistance  to  her  at  what 
she  might  feel  to  be  a  trying  ordeal — her  presentation  to 
his  mother  at  the  vicarage. 

Next,  he  wished  to  see  a  little  of  the  working  of  a  flour- 
mill,  ha\ing  an  idea  that  he  might  combine  the  use  of  one 
with  corn-growing.  The  proprietor  of  a  large  old  water- 
mill  at  Wellbridge — once  the  mill  of  an  abbey — had  offered 
him  the  inspection  of  his  time-honored  mode  of  procedure, 
and  a  hand  in  the  operations  for  a  few  days,  whenever  he 
should  choose  to  come.  Clare  paid  a  \dsit  to  the  place, 
some  few  miles  distant,  one  day  at  this  time,  to  inquire  par- 
ticulars, and  retui'ued  to  Talbothays  in  the  evening.  She 
found  him  determined  to  spend  a  short  time  at  the  Well- 
bridge  flour-mills ;  and  what  had  determined  him  ?  Less 
the  opportunity  of  an  insight  into  grinding  and  bolting 
than  the  casual  fact  that  lodgings  were  to  be  obtained  in 
that  very  farmhouse  which,  before  its  mutilation,  had  been 
the  mansion  of  a  branch  of  the  D'Urberville  family.  This 
was  always  how  Clare  settled  practical  questions;  by  a 
sentiment  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  them.  They  de- 
cided to  go  immediately  after  the  wedding,  and  remain 
for  a  fortnight,  instead  of  journeying  to  towns  and  inns. 
"Then  we  will  start  off  to  examine  some  farms  on  the 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  233 

other  side  of  London  that  I  have  heard  of,"  he  said,  "  and 
by  March  or  April  we  will  pay  a  visit  to  my  father  and 
mother.'^ 

Questions  of  procedure  such  as  these  arose  and  passed, 
and  the  day,  the  incredible  day,  on  w^hich  she  was  to  become 
his,  loomed  large  in  the  near  futui'e.  The  thirty-first  of 
December,  New  Year's  Eve,  was  the  date.  His  wife,  she 
said  to  herself.  Could  it  ever  be?  Their  two  selves  to- 
gether, nothing  to  di\dde  them,  every  incident  shared  by 
tliem  :  why  not  ?    And  yet  why  ? 

One  Sunday  morning  Izz  Huett  returned  from  churchy 
and  spoke  privately  to  Tess. 

^'  You  was  not  called  home  *  this  morning." 

"  What  ? " 

"  It  should  ha'  been  the  first  time  of  asking  to-day,"  she 
answered,  looking  quietly  at  Tess.  "You  meant  to  be 
married  New  Yeai-'s  Eve,  deary  !  " 

The  other  returned  a  quick  affirmative. 

'^  And  there  must  be  three  times  of  asking.  And  now 
there  be  only  two  Sundays  left  between." 

Tess  felt  her  cheek  pahng.  Izz  was  right ;  of  course 
there  must  be  tliree.  Perhaps  he  had  forgotten.  If  so, 
there  must  be  a  week's  postponement,  and  that  was  un- 
luckv. 

How  could  she  remind  her  lover  ?  She  who  had  been  so 
backward  was  suddenly  fired  with  impatience  and  alarm 
lest  she  should  lose  her  dear  prize. 

A  natural  incident  relieved  her  anxietv.  Izz  mentioned 
the  omission  of  the  banns  to  Mrs.  Crick,  and  Mrs.  Crick 
took  a  matron's  privilege  of  speaking  to  Angel  on  the  point. 

"  Have  ye  forgot  'em,  Mr.  Clare.     The  banns,  I  mean.'' 

"  No,  I  have  not  forgot  'em,"  said  Clare. 

As  soon  as  he  caught  Tess  alone  he  assured  her.  ''Don't 
let  them  tease  you  about  the  banns.  A  hcense  ^ill  be 
quieter  for  us,  and  I  have  decided  on  a  Hcense  without  con- 

*  "Called  home" — local  phrase  for  publication  of  banns. 


234  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

suiting  you.  So  if  you  go  to  church  on  Sunday  morning 
you  will  not  hear  your  own  name,  if  you  wished  to.'^ 

'^  I  didn't  wish  to  hear  it,  dearest/'  she  said,  proudly. 

But  to  know  that  things  were  in  train  was  an  immense 
relief  to  Tess  notwithstanding,  who  had  weU-nigh  feared 
that  somebody  would  stand  up  and  forbid  the  banns  on  the 
ground  of  her  history.     How  events  were  favoring  her ! 

"  I  don't  feel  quite  easy,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  All  this 
good  fortune  may  be  scourged  out  o'  me  afterwards  by  a 
lot  of  ill.  That's  how  G-od  mostly  does.  I  wish  I  could 
have  had  common  banns  !  " 

But  everything  went  smoothly.  She  wondered  whether 
he  would  like  her  to  be  married  in  her  present  best  white 
frock,  or  if  she  ought  to  buy  a  new  one.  The  question  was 
set  at  rest  by  his  forethought,  disclosed  by  the  arrival  of 
some  large  packages  addressed  to  her.  Inside  them  she 
found  a  whole  stock  of  clothing,  from  bonnet  to  shoes,  in- 
cluding a  perfect  morning  costume,  such  as  would  well  suit 
the  simple  wedding  they  planned.  He  entered  the  house 
shortly  after  the  arrival  of  the  packages,  and  heard  her  up- 
stairs undoing  them. 

A  minute  later  she  came  down  with  a  flush  on  her  face 
and  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"How  thoughtful  you've  been  ! "  she  murmured,  her  cheek 
upon  his  shoulder.  "  Even  to  the  gloves  and  handkerchief ! 
My  own  love — how  good,  how  kind !  " 

"No,  no,  Tessie;  just  an  order  to  a  tradeswoman  in 
London — nothing  more,"  said  he ;  and  to  divert  her  from 
thinking  too  highly  of  him  he  told  her  to  go  upstairs,  and 
take  her  time,  and  see  if  it  all  fitted ;  and,  if  not,  to  get  the 
village  seamstress  to  make  a  few  alterations. 

She  did  return  upstairs,  and  put  on  the  gown.  Alone, 
she  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  glass  looking  at  the  effect 
of  her  silk  attune ;  and  then  there  came  into  her  head  her 
mother's  ballad  of  the  mystic  robe, 

That  never  would  become  that  wife 
That  had  once  done  amiss, 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  235 

which  Mrs.  Durbeyfield  had  used  to  sing  to  her  as  a  child, 
so  blithely  and  so  archly,  her  foot  on  the  cradle,  which  she 
rocked  to  the  tune.  Suppose  this  robe  should  betray  her 
condition  by  its  changing  color,  as  her  robe  had  betrayed 
Queen  Guenever.  Since  she  had  been  at  the  dairy  she  had 
not  once  thought  of  the  lines  tiU  now. 


XXXIII. 

Angel  felt  that  he  would  like  to  spend  a  day  mth  her 
before  the  wedding  somewhere  away  from  the  dairy,  as  a 
last  jaunt  in  her  company  while  they  were  yet  mere  lover 
and  mistress ;  a  romantic  day,  in  circumstances  that  would 
never  be  repeated ;  mth  that  other  and  greater  day  beam- 
ing close  ahead  of  them.  During  the  preceding  week, 
therefore,  he  suggested  making  a  few  pm^chases  in  the 
nearest  town,  and  they  started  together. 

Clare's  life  at  the  dairy  had  been  that  of  a  recluse  in  re- 
spect to  the  world  of  his  own  class.  For  months  he  had 
never  gone  near  a  town,  and,  requii^ing  no  vehicle,  had 
never  kept  one,  hiring  the  dairyman's  cob  or  gig  if  he  rode 
or  'di'ove.     They  went  in  the  gig  that  day. 

And  then  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  they  shopped 
as  partners  in  one  concern,  that  of  theii'  future  domicile. 
It  was  Christmas  Eve,  with  its  loads  of  holly  and  mistletoe, 
and  the  town  was  very  full  of  strangers  who  had  come  in 
from  all  parts  of  the  country  on  account  of  the  day.  Tess 
paid  the  penalty  of  walking  about  with  happiness  super- 
added to  beauty  on  her  countenance  by  being  much  stared 
at  as  she  moved  amid  them  on  his  arm. 

In  the  evening  they  returned  to  the  inn  at  which  they 
had  put  up,  and  Tess  waited  in  the  entry  while  Angel  went 
to  see  the  horse  and  gig  brought  to  the  door.     The  general 


236  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

sitting-room  was  full  of  guests,  who  were  continually  going 
in  and  out.  As  the  door  opened  and  shut  each  tune  for 
the  passage  of  these,  the  light  within  the  parlor  fell  full 
upon  Tess's  face.  Two  men  came  out  and  passed  by  her 
among  the  rest.  One  of  them  had  stared  her  up  and  down 
in  surprise,  and  she  fancied  he  was  a  Trantridge  man, 
though  that  ^nllage  lay  so  many  miles  off  that  Trantridge 
folk  w^ere  rarities  here. 

"  A  comely  maid  that,"  said  the  other. 

^^  True,  comely  enough.  But  unless  I  make  a  gi*eat  mis- 
take  "     And  he  negatived  the  remainder  of  the  remark 

forthwith. 

Clare  had  just  returned  from  the  stable-yard,  and,  con- 
fronting the  man  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  words,  and 
saw  the  shrinking  of  Tess.  The  insult  to  her  stung  him  to 
the  quick,  and,  before  he  had  considered  anything  at  all,  he 
struck  the  man  on  the  chin  with  the  full  force  of  his  fist, 
sending  him  staggering  backwards  into  the  passage. 

The  man  recovered  himself,  and  seemed  incUned  to  come 
on,  and  Clare,  stepping  outside  the  door,  put  himself  in  a 
posture  of  defence.  But  his  opponent  began  to  think  bet- 
ter of  the  matter.  He  looked  anew  at  Tess  as  he  passed 
her,  and  said  to  Clare,  "  I  beg  pardon,  su^  5  'twas  a  complete 
mistake,  I  thought  she  was  another  woman,  forty  miles 
from  here." 

Clare,  feeling  then  that  he  had  been  too  hasty,  and  that 
he  was,  moreover,  to  blame  for  leaving  her  standing  in  an 
inn  passage,  did  what  he  usually  did  in  such  cases,  gave 
the  man  five  shillings  to  plaster  the  blow ;  and  thus  they 
parted,  bidding  each  other  a  pacific  good-night.  As  soon 
as  Clare  had  taken  the  reins  from  the  ostler,  and  the  young 
couple  had  driven  off,  the  two  men  went  in  the  other 
direction. 

"  And  was  it  a  mistake  ?  "  said  the  second  one. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  But  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  the  gentle- 
man's feelings — not  I." 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  237 

In  the  meantime  the  Livers  were  ch-mng  onward.  "  Could 
we  i)iit  off  our  wedding  till  a  little  later  ? "  Tess  a§ked,  in  a 
di'v,  dull  voice.     "I  mean,  if  we  wished?'' 

••  Xo.  mv  love.     Calm  vourself      Do  vou  mean  that  the 

fc  «.  •- 

fellow  mav  have  time  to  summon  me  for  assaidt  ? "   he 
asked,  good-humoredly. 

••Xo — I  only  meant — if  it  should  have  to  be  pnt  off." 

TVhat  she  meant  was  not  verv  clear,  and  he  dii-ected  her 
to  dismiss  such  fancies  fi'om  her  mind,  which  she  obedi- 
entlv  did  as  well  as  she  coidd.  But  she  was  oTave.  verv 
o-rave.  all  the  wav  home :  till  she  thouo-ht,  '*  We  shall  o-o 
awav.  a  verv  lonij  distance,  hundi'cds  of  miles  from  these 
parts,  and  such  as  this  can  never  happen  again,  and  no 
ghost  of  the  past  reach  there."  Even  now,  this  Trantridge 
man  was  the  lii*st  she  had  seen  in  this  part  of  the  country 
diu'ing  her  residence  here. 

They  parted  tenderly  that  night  on  the  landing,  and 
Clare  ascended  to  his  attic.  Tess  sat  up  finishing  some 
little  requisites,  lest  the  few  remaining  days  shoidd  not 
afford  sufficient  time,  and.  wlide  she  sat,  she  heai'd  a  noise 
in  Angel's  room  overhead,  a  sound  of  thumping  and  strug- 
ghng.  Eveiybody  else  in  the  house  was  asleep,  and,  in  her 
anxiety  lest  Clare  should  be  ill.  she  ran  up  and  knocked  at 
his  door,  and  asked  him  what  was  the  matter. 

'•  Oh. nothing,  dear." he  said  fi-om  within.  "I  am  so  sorry 
I  distui'bed  vou !  But  the  reason  is  rather  an  amusina- 
one :  I  fell  asleep  and  di-eamed  that  I  was  fighting  that 
fellow  aeain  who  insulted  vou.  and  the  noise  vou  heard 
was  my  pummelling  away  with  my  fists  at  my  portmanteau, 
which  I  piilled  out  to-day  for  packing.  I  am  occasionally 
liable  to  these  fi-eaks  in  my  sleep.  Go  to  bed,  and  think 
of  it  no  more." 

This  was  the  last  drachm  requu'ed  to  tm-n  the  scale  of 
her  indecision.  Declare  the  past  to  him  by  word  of  mouth 
she  could  not :  but  there  was  another  wav.  She  sat  do^\'n 
and  wrote  on  the  fotu'  pages  of  a  note-sheet  a  succinct  nar- 


238  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

rative  of  those  events  of  three  or  four  years  ago;  put  it 
into  an  envelope  and  directed  it  to  Clare.  Then,  lest  the 
flesh  should  again  be  weak,  she  crept  upstairs  without  any 
shoes  and  sHpped  the  note  under  his  door. 

Her  night  was  a  broken  one,  as  it  well  might  be,  and  she 
listened  for  the  first  faint  noise  overhead.  It  came,  as 
usual;  he  descended,  as  usual.  She  descended.  He  met 
her  at  the  bottom  of  the  staii's  and  kissed  her.  Surely  it 
was  as  warmly  as  ever. 

He  looked  a  little  distm'bed  and  worn,  she  thought. 
But  he  said  not  a  word  to  her  about  her  revelation,  even 
when  they  were  alone.  Could  he  have  had  it  ?  Unless  he 
began  the  subject,  she  felt  that  she  could  say  nothing.  So 
the  day  passed,  and  it  was  evident  that  whatever  he  thought 
he  meant  to  keep  to  himself.  Yet  he  was  frank  and  affec- 
tionate as  before.  Could  it  be  that  her  doubts  were  child- 
ish °?  that  he  forgave  her  ?  that  he  loved  her  for  what  she 
was,  just  as  she  was,  and  smiled  at  her  disquiet  as  at  a 
foolish  nightmare  ?  Had  he  received  her  note  ?  She  glanced 
into  his  room,  and  could  see  nothing  of  it.  It  might  be 
that  he  forgave  her.  But  even  if  he  had  not  received  it  she 
had  a  sudden  enthusiastic  trust  that  he  surely  would  forgive 
her. 

Every  morning  and  night  he  was  the  same,  and  thus  New 
Year's  Eve  broke — the  wedding-day. 

The  lovers  did  not  rise  at  milking-time,  having  through 
the  whole  of  this  last  week  of  their  sojourn  at  the  dahy 
been  accorded  something  of  the  position  of  guests,  Tess 
being  honored  with  a  room  of  her  own.  When  they  ar- 
rived downstairs  at  breakfast-time  they  were  surprised  to 
see  what  effects  had  been  produced  in  the  large  kitchen  to 
their  glory  since  they  had  last  beheld  it.  At  some  unnatural 
hour  of  the  morning  the  dairyman  had  caused  the  yawning 
chimney-corner  to  be  whitened,  and  the  brick  hearth  red- 
dened, and  a  blazing  yellow  damask  blower  to  be  hung 
across  the  arch  in  the  place  of  the  old  grimy  blue  cotton 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  239 

one  mth  a  black  sprig  pattern  which  had  formerly  done 
duty  here.  This  renovated  aspect  of  what  was  the  focus 
indeed  of  the  room  on  a  dull  winter  morning  threw  a  smil- 
ing demeanor  over  the  whole  apartment. 

"  I  was  determined  to  do  summat  in  honor  o't/'  said  the 
daily  man.  "And  as  you  wouldn't  hear  of  my  gieing  a 
rattling  good  randy  i'  fiddles  and  bass-\dols  complete,  as  we 
should  ha'  done  in  old  times,  this  was  all  I  could  think  o' 
as  a  noiseless  thing." 

Tess's  friends  lived  so  far  off  that  none  could  conven- 
iently have  been  present  at  the  ceremony,  even  had  any 
been  asked ;  but  as  a  fact  nobody  was  in\dted  from  Marlott. 
As  for  Angel's  family,  he  had  written  and  duly  informed 
them  of  the  time,  and  assured  them  that  he  would  be  glad 
to  see  one  at  least  of  them  there  for  the  day  if  he  would  hke 
to  come.  His  brothers  had  not  replied  at  all,  seeming  to 
be  indignant  with  him ;  while  his  father  and  mother  had 
written  a  rather  sad  letter,  deploring  his  precipitancy  in 
rushing  into  marriage,  but  making  the  best  of  the  matter 
by  saying  that,  though  a  dairywoman  was  the  last  daugh- 
ter-in-law they  could  have  expected,  their  son  had  arrived  at 
an  age  at  which  he  might  be  supposed  to  be  the  best  judge. 

This  coolness  in  his  relations  distressed  Clare  less  than  it 
would  have  done  had  he  been  without  the  grand  card  with 
which  he  meant  to  surprise  them  ere  long.  To  produce 
Tess,  fresh  from  the  dairy,  as  a  D'Urberville  and  a  lady, 
he  had  felt  to  be  temerarious  and  risky;  hence  he  had 
concealed  her  lineage  till  such  time  as,  familiarized  vdth 
worldly  ways  by  a  few  months'  travel  and  reading  with 
him,  he  could  take  her  on  a  visit  to  his  parents,  and  im- 
part the  knowledge  while  triumphant^  producing  her  as 
worthy  of  such  an  ancient  line.  It  was  a  pretty  lover  s 
dream,  if  no  more.  Perhaps  Tess's  lineage  had  more  value 
for  liimseK  than  for  anybody  in  the  world  besides. 

Her  perception  that  Angel's  bearing  towards  her  still  re- 
mained in  no  whit  altered  by  her  own  communication  ren- 


240  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

dered  Tess  guiltily  doubtful  if  lie  could  have  received  it. 
She  rose  from  breakfast  bef oi:e  he  had  finished,  and  hastened 
upstairs.  It  occui-red  to  her  to  look  once  more  into  the 
queer,  gaunt  room  which  had  been  Clare's  den,  or  rather 
e}Tie,  for  so  long,  and  chmbing  the  ladder,  she  stood  at  the 
open  door  of  the  apartment,  regarding  and  pondering.  She 
stooped  to  the  threshold  of  the  doorway,  where  she  had 
pushed  in  the  note  two  or  three  days  earlier  in  such  excite- 
ment. The  carpet  reached  close  to  the  sill,  and  under  the 
edge  of  the  carpet  she  discerned  the  faint  white  margin  of 
the  envelope  containing  her  letter  to  him,  which  he  ob^dously 
had  never  seen,  owing  to  her  ha\dng  in  her  haste  thrust  it 
beneath  the  carpet  as  well  as  beneath  the  door. 

With  a  feeling  of  faintness  she  mthdrew  the  letter. 
There  it  was — sealed  up,  just  as  it  had  left  her  hands. 
The  mountain  had  not  yet  been  removed.  She  could  not 
let  him  read  it  now,  the  house  being  in  full  bustle  of  prep- 
aration ;  and  descending  to  her  own  room,  she  destroyed 
the  letter  there. 

She  was  so  pale  when  he  saw  her  again  that  he  felt  quite 
anxious.  The  incident  of  the  misplaced  letter,  though  she 
had  guessed  that  it  might  be  so,  overwhelmed  her;  what 
could  she  do  at  this  late  moment?  Everything  was  in  a 
stir;  there  was  coming  and  going;  all  had  to  di'ess,  the 
dairyman  and  Mrs.  Crick  having  been  asked  to  accompany 
them  as  witnesses;  and  reflection  or  deliberate  talk  was 
well-nigh  impossible.  The  only  moment  Tess  could  get  to 
be  alone  with  Clare  was  when  they  met  upon  the  landing. 

"  I  am  so  anxious  to  talk  to  vou — I  want  to  confess  all 
my  faults  and  blunders,"  she  said,  mth  attempted  Hghtness. 

"  No,  no — we  can't  have  faults  talked  of — you  must  be 
deemed  perfect  to-day  at  least,  Sweet,"  he  cried.  "We 
shall  have  i)lcnty  of  time  hereafter,  I  hope,  to  talk  over  our 
failings.     I  will  confess  mine  at  the  same  time." 

"  But  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  do  it  now^  I  think^  so 
that  you  could  not  say— 


7? 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  241 

"Well,  you  shall  tell  me  any  tiling — say,  as  soon  as  we 
are  settled  in  our  lodging ;  not  now.  I,  too,  will  tell  you 
my  faults  then.  But  do  not  let  us  spoil  the  day  with  them ; 
they  will  be  excellent  matter  for  a  dull  time." 

"  Then  you  don't  wish  me  to,  dearest  ? " 

"  I  do  not,  Tess,  really." 

The  hmTy  of  dressing  and  starting  left  no  time  for  more 
than  this.  Those  words  of  his  seemed  to  reassui-e  her  on 
further  reflection,  especially  that  the  subject  was  one  on 
which  he  would  not  have  liked  to  speak  to  her.  She  was 
Avhirled  onward  through  the  next  couple  of  critical  hom's 
by  the  mastering  tide  of  her  devotion  to  him,  which  closed 
up  fm'ther  meditation.  Her  one  desii'e,  so  long  resisted,  to 
make  herself  his,  to  call  him  her  lord,  her  own — then,  if 
necessary,  to  die — had  at  last  lifted  her  up  from  her  plod- 
ding reflective  pathway.  In  dressing,  she  moved  about  in 
a  mental  cloud  of  many-colored  idealities,  which  eclipsed 
all  sinister  contingencies  by  its  brightness. 

The  church  was  a  long  way  off,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
di'ive,  particularly  as  it  was  "^\'inter.  A  close  carriage  was 
ordered  from  a  roadside  inn,  a  vehicle  which  had  been  kept 
there  ever  since  the  old  days  of  post-chaise  travelling.  It 
had  stout  wheel-spokes  and  heavy  felloes,  a  great  curved 
bed,  immense  straps  and  springs,  and  a  pole  hke  a  batter- 
ing-ram. The  postihon  was  a  venerable  "boy"  of  sixty — 
a  martyr  to  rheumatic  gout,  the  result  of  excessive  exposure 
in  youth,  counteracted  by  strong  liquors — who  had  stood 
at  inn-doors,  doiiig  nothing,  for  the  whole  five-and-twenty 
years  that  had  elapsed  since  he  had  no  longer  been  required 
to  ride  professionally,  as  if  expecting  the  old  times  to  come 
back  again.  He  had  a  permanent  running  wound  on  the 
outside  of  his  right  leg,  originated  by  the  constant  bruis- 
ings  of  aristocratic  carriage-poles  during  the  many  years 
that  he  had  been  in  regular  employ  at  the  Golden  Crown, 
Casterbridge. 

Inside  this  cumbrous  and  creaking  structure,  and  behind 
16 


242  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

this  decayed  conductor,  the  partie  carree  took  their  seats — 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crick.  Angel 
would  have  liked  one  at  least  of  his  brothers  to  be  present 
as  groomsman,  but  their  silence  after  liis  gentle  hint  to  that 
effect  by  letter  had  signified  that  they  did  not  care  to  come. 
They  disapproved  of  the  marriage,  and  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  countenance  it.  PerhajDS  it  was  well  that  they 
could  not  be  present ;  they  were  not  worldly  young  fellows, 
but  fraternizing  with  dairy-folk  would  have  struck  unpleas- 
antly upon  their  biassed  niceness,  apart  from  their  views  of 
the  match. 

Upheld  by  the  momentum  of  the  time,  Tess  knew  noth- 
ing of  this ;  did  not  see  it ;  did  not  know  the  road  they  were 
taking  to  the  church.  She  knew  that  Angel  was  close  to 
her ;  all  the  rest  was  a  luminous  mist.  She  was  a  sort  of 
celestial  person,  who  owed  her  being  to  poetry — one  of 
those  classical  divinities  Clare  was  accustomed  to  talk  to 
her  about  when  they  took  their  walks  together. 

The  marriage  being  by  hcense,  there  were  only  a  dozen 
or  so  of  people  in  the  chui-ch ;  had  there  been  a  thousand 
they  would  have  produced  no  more  effect  upon  her.  They 
were  at  stellar  distances  from  her  present  world.  In  the 
ecstatic  solemnity  wdth  which  she  swore  her  faith  to  him, 
the  ordinary  sensibilities  of  sex  seemed  a  flippancy.  At  a 
pause  in  the  service,  while  they  were  kneeling  together,  she 
unconsciously  inclined  herself  towards  him,  so  that  her 
shoulder  touched  his  arm ;  she  had  been  frightened  by  a 
passing  thought,  and  the  movement  had  been  automatic,  to 
assure  herself  that  he  was  really  there,  and  to  fortify  her 
belief  that  his  fidelity  would  be  proof  against  all  things. 

Clare  knew  that  she  loved  him — every  curve  of  her  foi-m 
showed  that — but  he  did  not  know  at  that  time  the  full 
depth  of  her  devotion,  its  single-mindedness,  its  meekness ; 
what  long-suffering  it  guaranteed — what  honesty,  what  en- 
durance, what  good  faith. 

As  they  came  out  of  church  the  ringers  swung  the  bells 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  243 

off  tlieir  rests,  and  a  modest  peal  of  three  notes  broke  forth 
— that  Umited  amount  of  expression  having  been  deemed 
suificient  for  the  Joys  of  such  a  small  parish.  Passing  by 
the  tower  with  her  husband  on  the  path  to  the  gate,  she 
could  feel  the  \dbrant  air  humming  round  them  from 
the  lou\Ted  belfry  in  a  circle  of  sound,  and  it  matched 
the  highly  charged  mental  atmosphere  in  which  she  was 
li\dng. 

Tills  condition  of  mind  wherein  she  felt  glorified  by  an 
iiTadiation  not  her  own,  like  the  Angel  whom  St.  John  saw 
in  the  sun,  lasted  till  the  sound  of  the  church-bells  had  died 
away,  and  the  emotions  of  the  wedding  ser\dce  had  calmed 
down. 

Her  eyes  could  dwell  upon  details  more  clearly  now,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crick  ha^dng  du'ected  their  own  gig  to  be 
sent  for  them,  to  leave  the  carriage  to  the  young  couple, 
she  observed  the  build  and  character  of  that  conveyance 
for  the  first  time.     Sitting  in  silence,  she  regarded  it  long. 

'^  I  fancy  you  seem  oppressed,  Tessie !  "  said  Clare. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  putting  her  hand  to  her  brow.  ^'  I 
tremble  at  many  tilings.  It  is  all  so  serious.  Angel.  Among 
other  things  I  seem  to  have  seen  this  carriage  before,  to  be 
very  ^^'ell  acquainted  with  it.  It  is  very  odd — I  must  have 
seen  it  in  a  dream." 

"0 — you  have  heard  the  legend  of  the  D'Urberville 
Coach — that  well-known  superstition  of  this  county  about 
your  family  when  they  were  very  popular  here ;  and  this 
lumbering  old  thing  reminds  you  of  it." 

^'  I  have  never  heard  of  it  to  my  knowledge,"  said  she. 
"What  is  the  legend — may  I  know  it?" 

"  Well — I  would  rather  not  tell  it  in  detail  just  now.  A 
certain  D'UrberviUe  of  the  sixteenth  or  seventeenth  century 
committed  a  dreadful  crime  in  his  family  coach ;  and  since 
that  time  members  of  the  family  see  or  hear  this  old  coach 

whenever But  I'll  teU  you  another  day — it  is  rather 

gloomy.     E^ddently  some  dim  knowledge  of  it  has  been 


244  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

brought  back  to  your  mind  by  tlie  sight  of  this  venerable 
caravan." 

^^I  don't  remember  hearing  it  before/'  she  murmured. 
"  Is  it  when  we  are  going  to  die,  Angel,  that  members  of 
my  family  see  it,  or  is  it  when  we  have  committed  a  crime  ? " 

"  Now,  Tess  !  "     He  silenced  her  by  a  kiss. 

By  the  time  they  reached  home  she  was  contrite  and 
spiritless.  She  was  Mrs.  Angel  Clare,  indeed,  but  had  she 
any  moral  right  to  the  name  ?  Was  she  not  more  truly 
Mrs.  Alexander  D'UrberviUe  ?  Could  intensity  of  love  jus- 
tify what  might  be  considered  in  upright  souls  as  culj^able 
reticence  ?  She  knew  not  what  was  expected  of  women  in 
such  cases ;  and  she  had  no  counsellor. 

However,  when  she  found  herself  alone  in  her  room  for 
a  few  minutes — the  last  day  this  on  which  she  was  ever  to 
enter  it — she  knelt  do^\Ti  and  prayed.  She  tried  to  pray  to 
God,  but  it  was  her  husband  who  really  had  her  suppHca- 
tion.  Her  idolatry  of  this  man  was  such  that  she  herself 
almost  feared  it  to  be  ill-omened.  She  was  conscious  of 
the  notion  expressed  by  Friar  Laui'ence :  ^'  These  ^dolent 
delights  have  violent  ends."  It  might  be  too  desperate  for 
human  conditions — too  rank,  too  ^^dld,  too  deadly.  "  O  my 
love,  my  love,  why  do  I  love  you  so  !  "  she  whispered  there 
alone  ;  "  for  she  you  love  is  not  my  real  self,  but  one  in  my 
image ;  the  one  I  might  have  been." 

Afternoon  came,  and  mth  it  the  hour  for  departure. 
They  had  decided  to  fulfil  the  plan  of  going  for  a  few  days 
to  the  lodgings  in  the  old  farmhouse  near  Wellbridge  Mill, 
at  which  he  meant  to  reside  dui'ing  his  investigation  of 
flour-processes.  At  two  o'clock  there  was  nothing  left  to 
do  but  start.  All  the  servantry  of  the  daiiy  were  standing 
in  the  red-brick  entry  to  see  them  go  out,  the  dairjanan  and 
his  wife  follomng  to  the  door.  Tess  saw  her  three  cham- 
ber-mates in  a  row  against  the  wall,  pensively  inclining 
their  heads.  She  had  much  questioned  if  they  would  ap- 
pear at  the  parting  moment ;  but  there  they  were,  stoical 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  245 

and  staunch  to  the  last.  She  knew  why  the  dehcate  Retty 
looked  so  fragile,  and  Izz  so  tragically  sorrowful,  and  Mar- 
ian so  blank ;  and  she  forgot  her  own  dogging  shadow  for 
a  moment  in  contemplating  theii's. 

She  impulsively  whispered  to  him:  "Will  you  kiss  'em 
all,  once,  poor  things,  for  the  first  and  last  time  ? " 

Clare  had  not  the  least  objection  to  such  a  farewell  for- 
mahty — which  was  all  that  it  was  to  him — and  as  he  passed 
them  he  kissed  them  in  succession  where  they  stood,  saying 
"  Good-by  "  to  each  as  he  did  so.  When  they  reached  the 
door  Tess  femininely  glanced  back  to  discern  the  effect  of 
that  kiss  of  charity ;  there  was  no  triumph  in  her  glance, 
as  there  might  have  been.  If  there  had  it  would  have  dis- 
appeared when  she  saw  how  moved  the  girls  all  were.  The 
kiss  had  obviously  done  harm  by  awakening  feelings  they 
were  tr\dng  to  subdue. 

Of  all  this  Clare  was  unconscious.  Passing  on  to  the 
wicket-gate  he  shook  hands  with  the  dairyman  and  his 
wife,  and  expressed  his  last  thanks  to  them  for  their  atten- 
tions ;  after  which  there  was  a  moment  of  silence  before 
they  had  moved  off.  It  was  interrupted  by  the  crowing  of 
a  cock.  The  white  one  A^dth  the  rose  comb  had  come  and 
settled  on  the  palings  in  front  of  the  house,  within  a  few 
yards  of  them,  and  his  notes  thrilled  their  ears  through, 
dwindling  away  hke  echoes  down  a  vaUey  of  rocks. 

''  O  ? "  said  Mrs.  Crick.     "  An  afternoon  crow  ?  " 

Two  men  were  standing  by  the  yard-gate,  holding  it 
open. 

"  That's  bad,"  one  murmm^ed  to  the  other,  not  thinking 
that  the  words  could  be  heard  by  the  group  at  the  door- 
wicket. 

The  cock  crew  again — straight  towards  Clare. 

''  Well !  "  said  the  dairyTuan. 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  him !  "  said  Tess  to  her  husband. 
*^  Tell  the  man  to  drive  on.     Good-by,  good-by !  " 

The  cock  crew  again. 


246  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Hoosh  !  Just  you  be  off,  sir,  or  I'll  twist  your  neck  !  " 
said  the  dairyman  with  some  irritation,  turning  to  the  bird 
and  driving  him  away.  And  to  his  wife  as  they  went  in- 
doors :  "  Now,  to  think  o'  that  just  to-day  !  Pve  not  heard 
his  crow  of  an  afternoon  all  the  year  afore." 

^'  It  only  means  a  change  in  the  weather/'  said  she  j  "  not 
what  you  think :  'tis  impossible  !  " 


XXXIV. 

They  drove  by  the  level  road  along  the  valley  to  a  dis- 
tance of  a  few  miles,  and,  reaching  Wellbridge,  tm-ned  away 
from  the  village  to  the  left,  and  over  the  great  Ehzabethan 
bridge  Avhich  gave  the  place  half  its  name.  Immediately 
behind  it  stood  the  house  in  which  they  had  engaged  lodg- 
ings, whose  exterior  is  so  well  known  to  aU  travellers 
through  the  Froom  VaUey  5  once  portion  of  a  fine  manorial 
residence,  the  property  and  home  of  a  D'Urberville,  but 
since  its  partial  demoUtion  a  farmhouse ;  an  adaptation  by 
no  means  singular  in  this  district,  where  there  are  few  old 
farm  homesteads  which  have  not,  at  some  time  or  other, 
before  ten  estates  were  merged  in  one,  been  the  seat  of  a 
lando^Tier. 

"  Welcome  to  one  of  your  ancestral  mansions ! "  said 
Clare  as  he  handed  her  down.  But  he  repented  the  pleas- 
antry ;  it  was  too  near  a  satii-e. 

On  entering  they  found  that,  though  they  had  only  en- 
gaged a  couple  of  rooms,  the  farmer  had  taken  advantage 
of  their  proposed  presence  during  the  few  coming  days  to 
pay  a  New  Year's  visit  to  some  friends,  lea\dng  a  Avoman 
from  a  neighboring  cottage  to  minister  to  their  few  wants. 
The  absoluteness  of  possession  pleased  them,  and  they  real- 
ized it  as  the  first  moment  of  their  experience  under  their 
own  exclusive  roof -tree. 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  247 

But  he  found  that  the  mouldy  old  habitation  somewhat 
depressed  his  bride.  When  the  carriage  was  gone  they 
ascended  the  stands  to  wash  theii*  hands,  the  charwoman 
showing  the  way.    On  the  landing  Tess  stopped  and  started. 

"  What's  the  matter  1 "  said  he. 

"  Those  horrid  women ! "  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 
"  How  they  frightened  me  !  " 

He  looked  up  and  perceived  two  life-size  portraits  on 
panels  built  into  the  masonry.  As  all  \dsitors  to  the  man- 
sion are  aware,  these  paintings  represent  women  of  middle 
age,  of  a  date  some  two  hundred  years  ago,  whose  linea- 
ments once  seen  can  never  be  forgotten.  The  long,  pointed 
features,  narrow  eye,  and  smirk  of  the  one,  so  suggestive 
of  merciless  treachery,  the  bilhhook  nose,  large  teeth  and 
bold  eye  of  the  other,  suggesting  arrogance  to  the  point  of 
ferocitv,  haunt  the  beholder  afterwards  in  his  dreams. 

'^  Wliose  portraits  are  those  ? ''  asked  Clare  of  the  char- 
woman. 

"  I've  been  told  by  the  old  folk  that  they  were  ladies  of 
the  D'Urberville  family,  the  ancient  lords  of  this  manor," 
she  said.  ''  Owing  to  their  being  builded  into  the  wall  they 
can't  be  removed." 

The  unpleasantness  of  the  matter  was  that,  in  addition 
to  their  effect  upon  Tess,  her  fine  features  were  unquestion- 
ably traceable  in  theh'  exaggerated  forms.  He  said  nothing 
of  this,  however  5  and  regretting  that  his  romantic  plan  of 
choosing  this  house  for  their  bridal  time  was  proving  to 
be  a  mistake,  went  on  into  the  adjoining  room.  The  place 
having  been  rather  hastily  prepared  for  them,  they  washed 
their  hands  in  one  basin.  Clare  touched  hers  under  the 
water. 

^' Wliich  are  my  fingers  and  w^hich  are  yours?"  he  said, 
looking  up.     "  They  are  very  much  mixed." 

^'  They  are  all  yours,"  said  she,  very  prettily,  and  endeav- 
ored to  be  gayer  than  she  was.  He  had  not  been  displeased 
■with  her  thoughtf ulness  on  such  an  occasion  5  it  was  what 


248  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

every  sensible  woman  wonld  show  5  but  Tess  knew  that  she 
had  been  thoughtful  to  excess,  and  struggled  against  it. 

The  sun  was  so  low  on  that  short  last  afternoon  of  the 
year  that  it  shone  in  thi'ough  a  small  opening  and  formed 
a  golden  staff  which  stretched  across  to  her  skirt,  whero  it 
made  a  spot  like  a  paint-mark  set  upon  her.  They  went 
down  to  the  ancient  parlor  to  tea,  and  here  they  shared 
their  first  common  meal  alone.  Such  was  their  childish- 
ness, or  rather  his,  that  he  found  it  interesting  to  use  the 
same  bread-and-butter  plate  as  herself,  and  to  brush  crumbs 
from  her  lips  with  his  own.  He  wondered  a  little  that  she 
did  not  enter  into  these  frivolities  with  his  own  zest. 

Looking  at  her  silently  for  a  long  time,  "  She  is  a  dear, 
dear  Tess,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  one  deciding  on  the 
true  construction  of  a  difficult  passage.  "Do  I  realize 
solemnly  enough  how  utterly  and  irretrievably  this  little 
womanly  thing  is  the  creatm^e  of  my  good  or  bad  faith  and 
fortune  ?  I  think  not.  I  think  I  could  not,  unless  I  were  a 
woman  mvself.  What  I  am,  she  is.  "What  I  become  she 
must  become.  What  I  cannot  be  she  cannot  be.  And  shall 
I  ever  neglect  her,  or  hurt  her,  or  even  forget  to  consider 
her  ?     God  forbid  such  a  crime  !  " 

They  sat  on  over  the  tea-table,  waiting  for  their  luggage, 
w^hich  the  dairyman  had  promised  to  send  before  it  grew 
dark.  But  evening  began  to  close  in,  and  the  luggage  did 
not  arrive,  and  they  had  brought  nothing  more  than  they 
stood  in.  With  the  departure  of  the  sun  the  calm  mood  of 
the  winter  day  changed.  Out-of-doors  there  began  noises 
as  of  silk  smartly  rul)bed ;  the  restful  dead  leaves  of  the 
preceding  autumn  were  stirred  to  irksome  resurrection,  and 
whirled  about  unwillingly,  and  tapped  against  the  shutters. 
It  soon  began  to  rain. 

"  That  cock  knew  the  weather  was  going  to  change,"  said 
Clare. 

The  woman  who  had  attended  upon  them  had  gone  home 
for  the  night,  but  she  had  placed  candles  upon  the  table, 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  249 

and  now  they  lit  them.  Each  candle-flame  drew  towards 
the  fireplace. 

"  These  old  houses  are  so  draughty,"  continued  Angel, 
looking  at  the  flames,  and  at  the  grease  guttering  doTvn  the 
sides.  "  I  wonder  where  that  luggage  is  f  We  haven't  even 
a  brush  and  comb." 

"  I  dont  know,"  she  answered,  absent-minded. 

"  Tess,  you  are  not  a  bit  cheerful  this  evening — not  at  all 
as  you  used  to  be.  Those  harridans  upstairs  have  unsettled 
you.  I  am  sorry  I  brought  you  here.  I  wonder  if  you  really 
love  me,  after  all  ? " 

He  knew  that  she  did,  and  the  words  had  no  serious  in- 
tent; but  she  was  surcharged  with  emotion,  and  winced 
hke  a  wounded  animal.  Though  she  tried  not  to  shed  tears, 
she  could  not  help  showing  one  or  two. 

"  I  did  not  mean  it,"  said  he,  sorry.  "  You  are  worried 
at  not  ha\dng  your  things,  I  know.  I  cannot  think  why 
old  Jonathan  has  not  come  mth  them,  ^^ly,  it  is  seven 
O'clock  !     Ah,  there  he  is  !  " 

A  knock  had  come  to  the  door,  and,  there  being  nobody 
else  to  answer  it,  Clare  went  out.  He  returned  to  the  room 
T\dth  a  small  package  in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  not  Jonathan,  after  all,"  he  said. 

''  How  vexing  !  "  said  Tess. 

The  packet  had  been  brought  by  a  special  messenger,  who 
had  anived  at  Talbothays  from  Emminster  Vicarage  im- 
mediately after  the  departm-e  of  the  married  couple,  and 
had  followed  them  hither,  being  under  injunction  to  deliver 
it  into  nobodv's  hands  but  theirs.  Clare  brought  it  to  the 
light.  It  was  less  than  a  foot  long,  sewed  up  in  canvas, 
sealed  in  red  wax  with  his  fathei-'s  seal,  and  directed  in  his 
father's  hand  to  "  Mrs.  Angel  Clare." 

"  It  is  a  little  wedding-present  for  you,  Tess,"  said  he, 
handing  it  to  her.     "  How  thoughtful  they  are  !  " 

Tess  looked  a  little  flustered  as  she  took  it. 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  have  you  open  it,  dearest,"  said 


250  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

she,  after  examining  the  parcel.  "I  don't  like  to  break 
those  great  seals  j  they  look  so  serious.  Please  open  it  for 
me ! " 

He  undid  the  parcel.  Inside  was  a  case  of  morocco 
leather,  on  the  top  of  which  lay  a  note  and  a  key. 

The  note  was  for  Clare,  in  the  following  words : 

'^My  dear  Son, — 

"  Possibly  you  have  forgotten  that  on  the  death  of  your 
godmother,  Mrs.  Pitney,  when  you  were  a  lad,  she — vain, 
kind  woman  that  she  was — left  to  me  a  portion  of  the  con- 
tents of  her  jewel-case  in  trust  for  your  wife,  if  you  should 
ever  have  one,  as  a  mark  of  her  affection  for  you  and  whom- 
soever you  should  choose.  This  trust  I  have  fulfilled,  and 
the  diamonds  have  been  locked  up  at  my  banker's  ever  since. 
Though  I  feel  it  to  be  a  somewhat  incongruous  act  in  the 
cu'cumstances,  I  am,  as  you  will  see,  bound  to  hand  over  the 
articles  to  the  woman  to  whom  they  will  now  rightly  belong, 
and  they  are  therefore  promptly  sent.  They  become,  I  be- 
lieve, heirlooms,  strictly  speaking,  according  to  the  terms  of 
your  godmother's  will,  the  precise  words  of  which  that  refer 
to  this  matter  are  enclosed." 

"I  do  remember,"  said  Clare;  "but  I  had  quite  forgot- 
ten." 

Unlocking  the  case,  they  found  it  to  contain  a  necklace, 
with  pendant,  bracelets,  and  ear-rings ;  and  also  some  other 
small  ornaments. 

Tess  seemed  afraid  to  touch  them  at  first,  but  her  eyes 
sparkled  for  a  moment  as  much  as  the  stones  when  Clare 
spread  out  the  set. 

"  Ai'e  they  mine  ? "  she  asked,  incredulously. 

"  They  are,  certainly,"  said  he. 

He  turned  to  the  fire.  He  remembered  how,  when  he 
was  a  lad  of  fifteen,  his  godmother,  the  Squire's  wife — the 
only  rich  person  AAdth  whom  he  had  ever  come  in  contact — 


THE   CONSEQUENCE.  251 

had  pinned  her  f  aitli  to  his  success ;  had  prophesied  a  won- 
drous career  for  him.  There  had  seemed  nothing  at  all  out 
of  keeping  with  such  a  conjectured  career  in  the  storing 
up  of  these  show^  ornaments  for  his  wife,  and  the  wives  of 
her  descendants.  They  gleamed  somewhat  ironically  now. 
"  Yet  why  f "  he  asked  himself.  It  was  but  a  question  of 
vanity  throughout ;  and  if  that  were  admitted  into  one  side 
of  the  equation  it  should  be  admitted  into  the  other.  His 
wife  was  a  D'Urberville :  whom  could  they  become  better 
than  her  ? 

Suddenly  he  said  with  enthusiasm,  "  Tess,  put  them  on — 
put  them  on  !  "    And  he  tm^ned  from  the  fire  to  help  her. 

As  if  by  magic  she  had  already  donned  them — necklace, 
ear-rings,  bracelets,  and  all. 

"  But  the  gown  isn't  right,  Tess,"  said  Clare.  "  It  ought 
to  be  a  low  one  for  a  set  of  brilliants  hke  that." 

"  Ought  it  ? "  said  Tess. 

"  Yes,"  said  he.  He  suggested  to  her  how  to  tuck  in  the 
upper  edge  of  her  bodice,  so  as  to  make  it  roughly  approx- 
imate to  the  cut  for  evening  wear ;  and  when  she  had  done 
this,  and  the  pendant  to  the  necklace  hung  isolated  amid 
the  whiteness  of  her  throat,  as  it  was  designed  to  do,  he 
stepped  back  to  survey  her. 

"  My  heavens,"  said  Clare,  '^  how  beautiful  you  are  !  " 

She  astonished  him.  As  evervbodv  knows,  fine  feathers 
make  fine  birds :  a  peasant  gu4  but  very  moderateh^  pre- 
possessing to  the  casual  observer  in  her  simple  condition 
and  attire  will  bloom  as  an  amazing  beauty  if  clothed  as  a 
woman  of  fashion  with  the  aids  that  Art  can  render ;  while 
the  beauty  of  the  midnight  crush  would  often  cut  but  a 
sorry  figure  if  placed  inside  the  field-woman's  ^\Tapper 
upon  a  monotonous  acreage  of  turnips  on  a  dull  day.  He 
had  never  till  now  realized  the  artistic  excellence  of  Tess's 
limbs  and  features. 

''  If  you  were  only  to  appear  in  a  ballroom ! "  he  said. 
"  But  no — no,  dearest ;  I  think  I  love  you  best  in  the  wing- 


252  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

bonnet  and  cotton  frock — yes,  better  than  in  this,  well  as 
you  support  these  dignities." 

Tess's  sense  of  her  striking  appearance  had  given  her  a 
flush  of  excitement,  which  was  yet  not  happiness. 

'^ril  take  them  off/'  she  said,  "in  case  Jonathan  should 
see  me.  They  are  not  fit  for  me,  are  they  ?  They  must  be 
sold,  I  suppose  1 " 

"  Let  them  stay  a  few  minutes  longer.  Sell  them  ? 
Never.     It  would  be  a  breach  of  faith." 

Influenced  by  a  second  thought,  she  readily  obeyed :  she 
had  something  to  tell,  and  there  might  be  help  in  these. 
She  sat  down  with  the  jewels  upon  her;  and  they  again 
indulged  in  conjectures  as  to  where  Jonathan  could  possi- 
bl}^  be  with  their  baggage.  The  ale  they  had  j)oured  out 
for  his  consumption  when  he  came  had  gone  flat  with  long 
standing. 

Shortly  after  this  they  began  supper,  which  was  already 
laid  on  a  side-table.  Before  they  had  finished  there  was  a 
jerk  in  the  fire-smoke,  the  rising  skein  of  which  bulged  out 
into  the  room,  as  if  some  giant  had  laid  his  hand  on  the 
chimney-top  for  a  moment.  It  had  been  caused  by  the 
opening  of  the  outer  door.  A  hea^^^  step  was  now  heard 
in  the  passage,  and  Angel  went  out. 

"  I  couldn'  make  nobody  hear  at  all  by  knocking,"  apolo- 
gized Jonathan  Kail,  for  it  was  he  at  last ;  "  and  as  'twas 
raining  out  I  opened  the  door.  I've  brought  the  things, 
sir." 

"  I  am  ver}^  glad  to  see  them.     But  you  are  very  late." 

"  Well,  yes,  sir."  There  was  something  subdued  in  Jona- 
than Kail's  tone  which  had  not  been  there  in  the  day,  and 
lines  of  concern  were  ploughed  upon  his  forehead  in  addi- 
tion to  the  lines  of  years.  He  continued :  "We've  aU  been 
gallied  at  the  dairy  at  what  might  ha'  been  a  most  terrible 
affliction  since  you  and  vour  mis'ess — so  to  name  her  now 
— left  us  this  a'ternoon.  Perhaps  you  ha'nt  forgot  the 
cock's  afternoon  crow?" 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  253 


^'  Dear  me ; — wliat- 


?7 


"Well,  some  says  it  do  mane  one  thing,  and  some  an- 
other ;  but  what's  happened  is  that  poor  little  Retty  Priddle 
hev  tried  to  drown  herself." 

"  No !  Really !  Why,  she  bade  us  good-by  with  the 
rest " 

"  Yes.  Well,  sir,  when  you  and  your  mis'ess — so  to  name 
what  she  lawful  is — when  you  two  di'ove  away,  as  I  say, 
Retty  and  Marian  put  on  their  bonnets  and  went  out  5  and 
as  there  is  not  much  doing  now,  being  New  Year's  Eve, 
and  folks  mops  and  brooms  from  what's  inside  'em,  nobody 
took  much  notice.  They  went  on  to  Lew-Everard,  w^here 
they  had  some'at  to  drink,  and  then  on  they  vamped  to 
Dree-armed  Cross,  and  there  they  seem  to  have  parted, 
Retty  striking  across  the  water-meads  as  if  for  home,  and 
Marian  going  on  to  the  next  village,  where  there's  another 
public-house.  Nothing  more  was  seed  or  heard  o'  Retty 
till  the  waterman,  on  his  way  home,  noticed  some'at  by  the 
Great  Pool,  and  'twas  her  bonnet  and  shawl  packed  up.  In 
the  water  he  found  her.  He  and  another  man  brought  her 
home,  thinking  'a  was  dead ;  but  she  came  round  by  de- 
grees." 

Angel,  suddenly  recollecting  that  Tess  was  overhearing 
this  gloomy  tale,  went  to  shut  the  door  between  the  passage 
and  the  ante-room  to  the  inner  parlor  where  she  was ;  but 
his  "vvife,  flinging  a  shawl  round  her,  had  approached  and 
was  listening  to  the  man's  narrative,  her  eyes  resting  ab- 
sently on  the  luggage  and  the  drops  of  rain  glistening 
upon  it. 

"  And,  more  than  this,  there's  Marian  ;  she's  been  found 
dead  di'unk  by  the  ^\dthy-bed — a  girl  who  hev  never  been 
kno^vn  to  touch  an}i;hing  before  except  shilling  ale ;  though 
to  be  sure,  'a  was  always  a  good  trencher- woman,  as  her 
face  showed.  It  seems  as  if  the  maids  had  all  gone  out  o' 
their  minds ! " 

"  And  Izz  ? "  asked  Tess. 


254  TESS   OF  THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

"  Izz  is  about  house  as  usual ;  but  'a  do  say  'a  can  guess 
how  it  happened  ]  and  she  seems  to  be  very  low  in  mind 
about  it,  poor  maid,  as  well  she  mid  be.  And  so  you  see, 
sir,  as  all  this  happened  just  when  we  was  packing  your  few 
traps  and  your  mis'ess's  night-rail  and  di'essing  things  into 
the  cart,  why,  it  belated  me." 

^^  Yes.  Well,  Jonathan,  will  you  get  the  trunks  upstairs, 
and  drink  a  cup  of  ale,  and  hasten  back  as  soon  as  you 
can,  in  case  you  should  be  wanted  ? " 

Tess  had  gone  back  to  the  inner  parlor,  and  sat  down 
by  the  fire,  looking  wistfully  into  it.  She  heard  Jonathan 
Kail's  hea\y  footsteps  up  and  down  the  stairs  till  he  had 
done  placing  the  luggage,  and  heard  him  express  his  thanks 
for  the  ale  her  husband  took  out  to  him,  and  for  the  gratu- 
ity he  received.  Jonathan's  footsteps  then  died  from  the 
door,  and  his  cart  creaked  awav. 

Angel  slid  forward  the  massive  oak  bar  which  fastened 
the  door,  and  coming  in  to  where  she  sat  over  the  hearth, 
pressed  her  cheeks  between  his  hands  from  behind.  He 
expected  her  to  jump  up  gaily  and  unpack  the  toilet  gear 
that  she  had  been  so  anxious  about,  but  as  she  did  not  rise, 
he  sat  down  with  her  in  the  firelight,  the  candles  on  the 
supper-table  being  too  thin  and  glimmering  to  interfere 
wdth  its  glow. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  should  have  heard  this  sad  story,"  he 
said.  ^'  Still,  don't  let  it  depress  you.  Retty  was  natm*aUy 
morbid,  you  know." 

"  Without  the  least  cause,"  said  Tess.  "  While  they  who 
have  cause  to  be,  hide  it,  and  pretend  they  are  not." 

This  incident  had  turned  the  scale  for  her.  They  were 
simple  and  innocent  girls  on  whom  the  unhappiness  of  un- 
requited love  had  fallen ;  they  had  deserved  better  at  the 
hands  of  Fate.  She  had  deserved  worse,  yet  she  Avas  the 
chosen  one.  It  was  wicked  of  her  to  take  all  without  pay- 
ing.    She  would  pay  to  the  uttermost  farthing ;  she  would 


THE   CONSEQUENCE,  255 

tell,  there  and  then.  This  final  determination  she  came  to 
when  she  looked  into  the  fii'e,  he  holding  her  hand. 

A  steady  crimson  glare  from  the  now  flameless  embers 
painted  the  sides  and  back  of  the  fii'eplace  with  its  color, 
and  the  well-pohshed  andii'ons,  and  the  old  brass  tongs  that 
wonld  not  meet.  The  underside  of  the  mantel-shelf  was 
flushed  with  the  unwavering  blood-colored  light,  and  the 
legs  of  the  table  nearest  the  fii'e.  Tess's  face  and  neck  re- 
flected the  same  warmth  5  which  each  diamond  tiu'ned  into 
an  Aldebaran  or  a  Sirius — a  constellation  of  white,  red,  and 
green  flashes,  that  interchanged  theii*  hues  with  her  every 
pulsation. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  we  said  to  each  other  this 
morning  about  telhng  our  faults  T'  he  asked,  abruptly,  find- 
ing that  she  still  remained  immovable.  "  We  spoke  lightly, 
perhaps,  and  you  may  well  have  done  so.  But  for  me  it 
was  no  Hght  promise.  I  want  to  make  a  confession  to  you, 
love." 

This,  from  him,  so  unexpectedly  apposite,  had  the  effect 
upon  her  of  a  Providential  interposition. 

"  You  have  to  confess  something  f "  she  said,  quickly,  and 
even  with  gladness  and  relief. 

"  You  did  not  expect  it  f  Ah — you  thought  too  highly 
of  me.  Now,  listen.  Put  your  head  there,  because  I  want 
you  to  forgive  me,  and  not  to  be  indignant  with  me  for  not 
telHng  you  before,  as  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  done.*' 

How  strange  it  was  !  He  seemed  to  be  her  double.  She 
did  not  speak,  and  Clare  went  on : 

"  But,  darling,  I  did  not  mention  it  because  I  was  afraid 
of  endangering  ni}^  chance  of  you,  the  great  prize  of  my 
life — my  fellowship  I  call  you.  My  brother's  fellowship 
was  won  at  his  college,  mine  at  Talbothays  Dauy.  Well,  I 
would  not  risk  it.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  a  month  ago — 
at  the  time  you  agi'eed  to  be  mine,  but  I  could  not ;  I 
thought  it  might  frighten  you  away  from  me.    I  put  it  off ; 


256  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

then  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  yesterday,  to  give  you  a 
chance  at  least  of  escaping  me.  But  I  did  not.  And  I  did 
not  this  morning,  when  you  proposed  oui'  confessing  our 
faults  on  the  landing: — the  sinner  that  I  was  !  But  I  must, 
now  I  see  you  sitting  there  so  solemnly.  I  wonder  if  you 
will  forgive  me  ?  '^ 

''  Oh  ves  !     I  am  sure  that " 

''  Well,  I  hope  so.  But  wait  a  minute.  You  don't  know. 
To  begin  at  the  beginning.  Though  I  believe  my  poor 
father  fears  that  I  am  one  of  the  eternally  lost  for  my  doc- 
trines, I  am  of  course  a  believer  in  good  morals,  Tess,  as 
much  as  you.  I  used  to  wish  to  be  a  teacher  of  men,  and 
it  was  a  great  disappointment  to  me  when  I  foimd  I  could 
not  enter  the  Church.  I  loved  spotlessness,  even  though  I 
could  lay  no  claim  to  it,  and  hated  impmity,  as  I  hope  I  do 
now.  Whatever  one  may  think  of  plenary  inspiration,  one 
must  heartily  subscribe  to  these  words  of  Paul :  '  Be  thou 
an  example — in  word,  in  conversation,  in  charity,  in  spirit, 
in  faith,  in  purity.'  It  is  the  only  safeguard  for  us  poor 
human  beings.  '  Integer  ^dtae,'  says  a  Roman  poet,  who  is 
strange  company  for  St.  Paul : 

The  man  of  upright  life,  from  frailties  free, 
O  Fuscus,  needs  no  Moorish  spear  and  bow. 

Well,  a  certain  place  is  paved  with  good  intentions,  and 
having  felt  all  that  so  strongly,  you  will  see  what  a  terrible 
remorse  it  bred  in  me  when,  in  the  midst  of  my  high  aims 
for  other  people,  I  myself  feU." 

He  then  told  her  of  that  time  of  his  hf  e  to  which  allusion 
has  been  made  when,  tossed  about  by  doubts  and  difficulties 
like  a  cork  on  the  waves,  he  went  to  London  and  plunged 
into  eight-and-forty  hours'  dissipation  with  a  stranger. 

"  Happily  I  awoke  almost  immediately  to  a  sense  of  my 
foUy,"  he  continued.  "  I  would  have  no  more  to  say  to  her, 
and  I  came  home.    I  have  never  repeated  the  offence.    But 


THE  CONSEQUENCE.  257 

I  felt  I  should  like  to  treat  you  mtli  perfect  frankness  and 
honor,  and  I  could  not  do  so  without  telling  this.  Do  you 
forgive  me  ?  '^ 

She  pressed  his  hand  tightly  for  an  answer. 

"  Then  we  will  dismiss  it  at  once  and  forever — too  pain- 
ful as  it  is  for  the  occasion — and  talk  of  something  lighter.'' 

''  0  Angel — I  am  almost  glad — because  now  you  can  for- 
give me  !  I  have  not  made  my  confession.  I  have  a  con- 
fession, too — remember,  I  said  so." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sm^e  !     Now  then  for  it,  wicked  little  one." 

u  Perhaps,  although  you  smile,  it  is  as  serious  as  youi's, 
or  more  so." 

"  It  can  hardly  be  more  serious,  dearest." 

"  It  cannot — oh  no,  it  cannot !  "  She  jumped  up  at  the 
hope.  "  No,  it  cannot  be  more  serious,  certainly,"  she  cried, 
"  because  'tis  just  the  same  !     I  vd\l  tell  you  now." 

Then*  hands  Avere  still  joined.  The  ashes  under  the  grate 
were  lit  by  the  fire  vertically,  like  a  torrid  waste.  Imagina- 
tion might  have  beheld  a  Last-Day  luridness  in  this  red- 
coaled  glow,  which  stiU.  fell  on  his  face  and  hand,  and  on 
hers,  peering  into  the  loose  hair  about  her  brow,  and  firing 
the  delicate  skin  underneath.  A  large  shadow  of  her  shape 
rose  upon  the  wall  and  ceiling.  She  bent  forward,  at  which 
each  diamond  on  her  neck  gave  a  sinister  wink  like  a  toad's, 
and  pressing  her  forehead  against  his  temple  she  entered 
on  the  story  of  her  acquaintance  with  Alec  D'Urber\ille 
and  its  resiilts,  murmuring  the  words  without  flinching, 
and  with  her  eyeHds  drooping  down. 
11 


THE    WOMAN    PAYS 


XXXV. 

Her  narrative  ended ;  even  its  re-assertions  and  second- 
ary explanations  were  done.  Tess's  voice  throngliont  had 
liardlj'  risen  higher  than  its  opening  tone ;  there  had  been 
no  exculpatory  phrase  of  any  kind,  and  she  had  not  wept. 

But  the  complexion  even  of  external  things  seemed  to 
suffer  transmutation  as  her  announcement  progressed.  The 
fire  in  the  grate  looked  impish — demoniacally  funny,  as  if 
it  did  not  care  in  the  least  about  her  strait.  The  fender 
grinned  idly,  as  if  it,  too,  did  not  care.  The  light  from 
the  water-bottle  was  merely  engaged  in  a  chromatic  prob- 
lem. All  material  objects  around  announced  their  irre- 
sponsibility ^^^th  terrible  iteration.  And  yet  nothing  had 
changed  since  the  moments  when  he  had  been  kissing  her ; 
or  rather,  nothing  in  the  substance  of  things.  But  the 
essence  of  things  had  changed.  When  she  ceased,  the 
auricular  impressions  from  their  pre^dous  endeai-ments 
seemed  to  hustle  away  into  the  corners  of  their  brains,  re- 
peating themselves  as  echoes  from  a  time  of  supremely 
purblind  foolishness. 

Clare  performed  the  irrelevant  act  of  stirring  the  fire ; 
the  intelligence  had  not  even  yet  got  to  the  bottom  of  him. 
After  stirring  the  embers  he  rose  to  his  feet  -,  all  the  force 
of  her  disclosure  had  imparted  itself  now.     His  face  lind 


THE   WOMAN   PAYS.  259 

withered.  In  the  streniiousuess  of  his  concentration  he 
treadled  fitfully  on  the  floor.  He  could  not,  by  any  con- 
trivance, think  closely  enough ;  that  was  the  meaning  of 
his  vague  movement.  Wlien  he  spoke  it  was  in  the  most 
inadequate,  commonplace  voice  of  the  many  varied  tones 
she  had  heard  from  him. 

''  Tess ! " 

"Yes,  dearest." 

"  Am  I  to  believe  this  ?    From  vour  manner  I  am  to  take 

ft/ 

it  as  true.  O,  you  cannot  be  out  of  yom*  mind  !  You  ought 
to  be !  Yet  you  are  not.  .  .  .  My  wife,  my  own  Tess ! — 
nothing  in  you  warrants  such  a  supposition  as  that  ? " 

"  I  am  not  out  of  my  mind,"  she  said. 

"  And  yet "     He  looked  vacantly  at  her,  to  resume 

with  dazed  senses :  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  ?  Ah 
yes,  you  would  have  told  me,  in  a  way — but  I  hindered  you, 
I  remember ! " 

These  and  other  of  liis  words  were  nothing  but  the  per- 
functory babble  of  the  surface  while  the  depths  remained 
paralyzed.  He  tiu'ned  away,  and  bent  over  a  chair.  Tess 
followed  him  to  the  middle  of  the  room  where  he  was,  and 
stood  there  staring  at  him  with  eyes  that  did  not  weep. 
Presently  she  slid  down  upon  her  knees  beside  his  foot, 
and  from  this  position  she  crouched  in  a  heap. 

"In  the  name  of  our  love,  forgive  me !  "  she  whispered 
with  a  diy  mouth,  "  I  have  forgiven  you  for  the  same." 
And,  as  he  did  not  answer,  she  said  again,  "Forgive  me 
as  you  are  forgiven." 

"  I  have  no  such  hope,"  said  he. 

"  I  forgive  you,  Angel." 

"  You — yes,  you  do." 

"  But  you  do  not  forgive  me  ?" 

'^  O  Tess,  forgiveness  does  not  apply  to  the  case  !  You 
were  one  person ;  now  you  are  another.  My  God — how 
can  forgiveness  meet  such  a  grotesque — prestidigitation  as 
that ! " 


260  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER^^LLES. 

He  paused,  contemplating  tliis  idea ;  then  suddenly  broke 
into  horrible  laughter — as  unnatural  and  ghastly  as  a  laugh 
in  hell.     Sickly  white,  she  jumped  up. 

"  Don't — don't !  It  kills  me  quite,  that !  "  she  shrieked. 
"  O,  have  mercy  upon  me — have  mercy !  .  .  .  Angel !  An- 
gel !  what  do  you  mean  by  that  laugh  ? "  she  cried  out. 
"  Do  you  know  what  this  is  to  me  ? " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  been  hoping,  longing,  praying,  to  make  you 
hajDpy.  I  have  thought  what  joy  it  will  be  to  do  it,  what 
an  unworthv  mf e  I  shall  be  if  I  do  not !  That's  what  I 
have  felt,  Angel !  " 

"  I  know  that." 

"  I  thought,  Angel,  that  you  loved  me — me,  my  very  self ! 
If  it  is  I  you  do  love,  O,  how  can  it  be  that  you  look  and 
sj)eak  so  ?  It  frightens  me !  Having  begun  to  love  'ee, 
I  love  ^ee  forever — in  all  changes,  in  all  disgraces,  because 
you  are  yourself.  I  ask  no  more.  Then  how  can  you,  0 
my  own  husband,  stop  loving  me  ? " 

"  I  repeat,  the  woman  I  have  been  loving  is  not  you." 

"  But  who  ? " 

"Another  woman  in  your  shape." 

She  perceived  in  his  words  the  realization  of  her  own 
apprehensive  foreboding  in  former  times.  He  looked  upon 
her  as  a  species  of  impostor ;  a  guilty  woman  in  the  guise 
of  an  innocent  one.  Terror  was  upon  her  white  face  as 
she  saw  it ;  her  cheek  was  flaccid,  and  her  mouth  had  almost 
the  aspect  of  a  round  little  hole.  The  horrible  sense  of  his 
view  of  her  so  deadened  her  appearance  that  he  stepped 
forward,  thinking  she  was  going  to  fall. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  he  said,  gently.  "  You  are  ill ;  and 
it  is  natural  that  you  should  be." 

She  did  sit  down,  without  knowing  where  she  was,  that 
strained  look  still  upon  her  face,  and  her  eyes  such  as  to 
make  his  flesh  creep. 

"  T  don't  belong  to  you  any  more,  then ;  do  I,  Angel  ? " 


(( ( 


IN   THE   NAME   OF    HEAVEN,  FORGIVE   ME  !'  SHE    WHISPERED." 


THE  WOMAN   PAYS.  261 

she  asked,  lielplessty.  "  It  is  not  me,  but  another  woman 
like  me  that  he  loved,  he  says." 

By  a  momentary  power  of  introspection,  she  seemed  to 
take  pity  upon  herseK  as  one  who  was  ill-used.  Her  eyes 
filled  as  she  regarded  her  position  further;  she  turned 
round  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  self-sympathetic  tears. 

Angel  Clare  was  reheved  at  this  change,  for  the  effect  on 
her  of  what  had  happened  was  beginning  to  be  a  trouble 
to  him  only  less  than  the  woe  of  the  disclosure  itself.  He 
waited  patiently,  apathetically,  till  the  violence  of  her  gTief 
had  worn  itself  out,  and  her  rush  of  weeping  had  lessened 
to  a  catching  gasp  at  intervals. 

"  Angel,"  she  said,  suddenly,  in  her  natural  tones,  the  in- 
sane, di'y  voice  of  terror  having  left  her  now ;  "  Angel,  am 
I  too  mcked  for  you  and  me  to  live  together  f " 

'^  I  have  not  been  able  to  think  what  we  can  do." 

"  I  shan't  ask  you  to  let  me  Hve  mtli  you,  Angel,  because 
I  have  no  right  to.  I  shall  not  write  to  mother  and  sisters 
to  say  we  be  married,  as  I  said  I  would  do ;  and  I  shan't 
finish  the  good-hussif'  I  cut  out  and  meant  to  make  while 
we  were  in  lodgings." 

'^ Shan't  you?" 

''  No,  I  shan't  do  anything,  unless  you  order  me  to ;  and 
if  you  go  away  from  me  I  shall  not  follow  'ee ;  and  if  you 
never  speak  to  me  any  more  I  shall  not  ask  why,  unless 
you  tell  me  I  may." 

"  And  if  I  do  order  you  to  do  anything  ? " 

"  I  will  obey  you  like  your  perfect  slave,  even  if  it  is  to 
lie  down  and  die." 

"You  are  very  good.  But  it  strikes  me  that  there  is  a 
want  of  harmony  between  yom^  present  mood  of  self-sacri- 
fice and  your  past  mood  of  self-preservation." 

These  were  the  first  words  of  antagonism.  To  fling  elab- 
orate sarcasms  at  Tess,  however,  was  much  like  flinging 
them  at  a  dog  or  cat.  The  charms  of  their  subtlety  passed 
by  her  unappreciated,  and  she  only  received  them  as  inimical 


262  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

sounds  wliich  meant  that  anger  ruled.  She  remained  mute, 
not  knowing  that  he  was  desperately  smothering  his  affec- 
tion for  her.  She  hardly  observed  that  a  tear  descended 
slowly  upon  his  cheek,  so  large  that  it  magnified  the  pores 
of  the  skin  over  which  it  roUed,  like  the  object-lens  of  a  mi- 
croscope. Meanwhile  re-iUumination  as  to  the  terrible  and 
total  change  that  her  confession  had  wrought  in  his  life,  in 
his  universe,  returned  to  him,  and  he  tried  desperately  to  ad- 
vance among  the  new  conditions  in  which  he  stood.  Some 
consequent  action  was  necessary :  yet  what  ? 

"  Tess,"  he  said,  as  gently  as  he  could  speak,  "  I  cannot 
stay — ^in  this  room — ^just  now.  "I  wjR  walk  out  a  httle 
way."  He  quietly  left  the  room,  and  the  two  glasses  of 
wine  that  he  had  poured  out  for  their  supper — one  for  her, 
one  for  him — remained  on  the  table  untasted.  This  was 
what  then'  supper — their  Agape — had  come  to.  At  tea,  two 
or  three  hours  earlier,  the}^  had,  in  the  freakishness  of  affec- 
tion, drunk  from  one  cup. 

The  closing  of  the  door  behind  him,  gently  as  it  had  been 
pulled  to,  roused  Tess  from  her  stupor.  He  was  gone  ]  she 
could  not  stay.  Hastily  flinging  her  cloak  round  her,  she 
opened  the  door  and  followed,  putting  out  the  candles  as  if 
she  were  never  coming  back.  The  rain  was  over,  and  the 
night  was  now  clear. 

She  was  soon  close  at  his  heels,  for  Clare  walked  slowly, 
and  without  purpose.  His  form  beside  her  hght  gray  fig- 
ui'e  looked  black,  sinister,  and  forbidding,  and  she  felt  as 
sarcasm  the  touch  of  the  jewels  of  which  she  had  been  mo- 
mentarily so  proud.  Clare  turned  at  hearing  her  footsteps, 
but  his  recognition  of  her  presence  seemed  to  make  no 
difference  in  him,  and  he  went  on  over  the  five  yawning 
arches  of  the  gi^eat  bridge  in  front  of  the  house. 

The  cow  and  horse  tracks  in  the  road  were  full  of  water, 
the  rain  having  been  enough  to  charge  them,  but  not 
enough  to  wash  them  away.  Across  these  minute  pools 
the  reflected  stars  flitted  in  a  quick  transit  as  she  passed ; 


THE  WOIMAN  PAYS.  263 

she  would  not  have  known  they  were  shining  overhead  if 
she  had  not  seen  them  there — the  vastest  things  of  the  uni- 
verse imaged  in  objects  so  mean. 

The  place  to  which  they  had  travelled  to-day  was  in  the 
same  valley  as  Talbothays,  but  some  miles  lower  down  the 
river-  and  the  surroundings  being  open  she  kept  easily 
in  sight  of  him.  Away  from  the  house  the  road  wound 
through  the  meads,  and  along  these  she  followed  Clare 
without  any  attempt  to  come  up  with  him  or  to  attract  liim^ 
but  with  dumb  and  vacant  fidelitv. 

At  last,  however,  her  listless  walk  bought  her  up  along- 
side him,  and  still  he  said  nothing.  The  cruelty  of  fooled 
honesty  is  often  gi'eat  after  enlightenment,  and  it  was  gi'eat 
in  Clare  now.  The  outdoor  air  had  apparently  taken  away 
from  him  all  tendency  to  act  on  impulse  :  he  saw  her  with- 
out irradiation — in  all  her  bareness.  She  knew  that  Time 
was  chanting  his  satiric  psahn  at  her  then  : 

Behold,  when  thy  face  is  made  bare,  he  that  loved  thee  shall  hate ; 

Thy  face  shall  be  no  more  fair  at  the  fall  of  thy  fate. 

For  thy  life  shall  fall  as  a  leaf  and  be  shed  as  the  rain ; 

And  the  veil  of  thine  head  shall  be  grief,  and  the  crown  shall  be  pain. 

He  was  still  intently  thinking,  and  her  companionship 
had  now  insufficient  power  to  break  or  divert  the  strain  of 
thought.  What  a  weak  thing  her  presence  must  have  be- 
come to  him  !     She  could  not  help  addi'essing  Clare. 

"What  have  I  done — what  have  I  done  ?  I  have  not  told 
of  anything  that  interferes  with  or  beUes  my  love  for  you. 
You  don't  think  I  planned  it,  do  you  ?  It  is  in  yoiu*  own 
mind  what  you  are  angry  at,  Angel  5  it  is  not  in  me.  O, 
it  is  not  in  me,  and  I  am  not  that  deceitful  woman  vou 
think  me ! " 

"  H'm — well.  Not  deceitful,  my  wife  ;  but  not  the  same. 
No,  not  the  same.  But  do  not  make  me  reproach  you ! 
I  have  sworn  that  I  will  not;  and  I  do  everything  to 
avoid  it." 


264  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

But  she  went  on  pleading  in  her  distraction  j  and  per- 
haps said  things  that  would  have  been  }3etter  left  to  silence. 
''O  Angel — Angel:  I  was  a  cliild — a  child  when  it  hap- 
pened !     I  knew  nothing  of  men." 

"You  were  more  sinned  against  than  sinning^  that  I  ad- 
mit." 

"  Then  will  you  not  forgive  me  ? " 

"  I  do  forgive  you.     But  forgiveness  is  not  all." 

"  And  love  me  ? " 

To  this  question  he  did  not  answer. 

"  0  Angel — my  mother  says  that  it  sometimes  happens 
so — she  knows  several  cases  where  thev  were  worse  than  I, 
and  the  husband  has  not  minded  it  much — has  forgiven  her 
at  least.  And  yet  the  woman  has  not  loved  him  as  I  do 
you." 

"Don't,  Tess,  don^t  argue.  Different  societies,  different 
manners.  You  seem  like  an  unappreciative  peasant  woman , 
who  has  never  been  initiated  into  the  proportions  of  things. 
You  don't  know  what  you  say." 

"  I  am  only  a  peasant  by  position,  not  by  natm^e."  She 
spoke  with  an  impulse  to  anger,  but  it  went  as  it  came. 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  I  think  that  parson  who 
unearthed  your  pedigree  would  have  done  better  if  he  had 
held  his  tongue.  I  cannot  help  associating  your  decline  as 
a  family  with  this  other  fact — of  your  want  of  firmness. 
Decrepit  families  imply  decrepit  wills,  decrepit  conduct. 
God,  why  did  you  give  me  a  handle  for  despising  you  more 
by  informing  me  of  your  descent !  Here  was  I  thinking 
you  a  new-sprung  child  of  Nature ;  there  were  you,  the  ex- 
hausted seed  of  an  effete  aristocracv !  " 

"  Lots  o'  families  are  as  bad  as  mine  in  that.  Ketty's 
family  were  once  large  landowners,  and  so  were  Dairyman 
Billet's.  And  the  Debbyhouses,  who  now  be  carters,  were 
once  the  De  Bayeux  family.  You  find  such  as  I  every- 
where ;  'tis  a  feature  of  our  county,  and  I  can't  help  it." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  the  countv." 


THE  W03L\N  PAYS.  2G5 

She  took  these  reproaches  in  their  biilk  siniply,  not  in 
their  particulars  j  he  did  not  love  her  as  he  had  loved  her 
hitherto,  and  to  all  else  she  was  indifferent. 

They  wandered  on  again  in  silence.  It  w^as  said  after- 
wards that  a  cottager  of  "Wellbridge,  who  went  out  late 
that  night  for  a  doctor,  met  two  lovers  in  the  pastiu'es, 
walking  very  slowly,  without  converse,  one  beliind  the  other, 
as  in  a  funeral  procession,  and  the  glimpse  that  he  ol)- 
tained  of  their  faces  seemed  to  denote  that  they  were 
anxious  and  sad.  Betui*ning  later,  he  passed  them  again 
in  the  same  field,  progressing  just  as  slowly,  and  as  regard- 
less of  the  hour  and  of  the  cheerless  night  as  before.  It 
was  only  on  account  of  his  preoccupation  with  his  own 
affaii's,  and  the  illness  in  his  house,  that  he  did  not  bear  in 
mind  the  curious  incident,  which,  however,  he  recalled  a 
long  while  after. 

During  the  interval  of  the  cottager's  going  and  coming, 
she  had  said  to  her  husband,  "  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help 
being  the  cause  of  much  misery  to  you  aU  youi'  Life.  The 
river  is  down  there.  I  can  put  an  end  to  myself  in  it.  I 
am  not  afraid.'^ 

''I  don't  wish  to  add  miu'der  to  my  other  follies,"  he 
said. 

"  I  will  leave  something  to  show  that  I  did  it  myself — on 
account  of  my  shame.     They  "woU  not  blame  you  then." 

"  Don't  speak  so — I  don't  want  to  hear  it !  It  is  absiu'd 
to  have  such  thoughts  in  this  kind  of  case,  which  is  rather 
one  for  satirical  laughter  than  for  tragedy.  You  don't  in 
the  least  understand  the  quality  of  the  mishap.  It  would 
be  viewed  in  the  light  of  a  joke  by  nine-tenths  of  the  world, 
if  it  were  known.  Please  oblige  me  by  returning  to  the 
house,  and  going  to  bed." 

"  I  will,"  said  she,  dutifully. 

They  had  rambled  round  by  a  road  which  led  to  the  weU- 
knoT\TL  ruins  of  the  Cistercian  Abbev  behind  the  mill,  the 
latter  having,  in  centuries  past,  been  attached  to  the  monas- 


266  TESS  OP  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

tic  establisliment.  The  mill  still  worked  on,  food  being  a 
perennial  necessity  j  the  abbey  had  perished,  creeds  being 
transient.  One  continnally  sees  the  ministration  of  the 
temporary  outlasting  the  ministration  of  the  eternal. 
Their  walk  having  been  circuitons,  they  were  still  not  far 
from  the  house,  and  in  obeying  his  direction  she  only  had 
to  reach  the  large  stone  bridge  across  the  main  river, 
and  follow  the  road  for  a  few  yards.  When  she  got  back 
everything  remained  as  she  had  left  it,  the  fire  being  still 
burning.  She  did  not  stay  downstairs  for  more  than  a 
few  moments,  but  proceeded  to  her  chamber,  whither  the 
luggage  had  been  taken.  Here  she  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  looking  vacantly  around,  and  presently  began  to 
undress.  In  remo^dng  the  light  towards  the  bedstead  its 
rays  fell  upon  the  tester  of  white  dimity ;  something  was 
hanging  beneath  it,  and  she  lifted  the  candle  to  see  what  it 
was.  A  bough  of  mistletoe.  Angel  had  put  it  there ;  she 
knew  that  in  an  instant.  This  was  the  explanation  of  that 
mysterious  parcel  which  it  had  been  so  difficult  to  pack  and 
bring ;  whose  contents  he  would  not  explain  to  her,  saying 
that  time  would  soon  show  her  the  purpose  thereof.  In 
his  zest  and  his  gaiety  he  had  hung  it  there.  How  foolish 
and  inopportune  that  mistletoe  looked  now ! 

Having  nothing  more  to  fear,  having  scarce  anything  to 
hope,  for  that  he  would  relent  there  seemed  no  promise 
whatever,  she  lay  down  dully.  Wlien  sorrow  ceases  to  be 
speculative  sleep  sees  her  opportunity.  Among  so  many 
happier  moods  which  forbid  repose  this  was  a  mood  that 
welcomed  it,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  lonely  Tess  forgot 
existence,  surrounded  by  the  aromatic  stillness  of  the  cham- 
ber that  had  once,  possibly,  been  the  bride-chamber  of  her 
own  ancestry. 

Later  on  that  night  Clare  also  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
house.  Entering  softly  to  the  sitting-room  he  obtained  a 
light,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  who  had  considered  his 
course,  he  spread  his  rugs  upon  the  old  horsehair  sofa 


THE  WOJklAN  PAYS.  267 

which  stood  there,  and  roughly  shaped  it  to  a  sleeping-couch. 
Before  l}dng  down  he  crept  shoeless  upstaii's,  and  listened 
at  the  door  of  her  apartment.  Her  measured  breathing 
told  that  she  was  sleeping  profoundly. 

"  Thank  God !  "  murmm^ed  Clare ;  and  yet  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  pang  of  bitterness  at  the  thought — approxi- 
mately true,  thouo^h  not  wholly  so — that  hayinsf  shifted  the 
burden  of  her  life  to  his  shoulders,  she  was  now  reposing 
without  care. 

He  tui'ued  away  to  descend ;  then,  irresolute,  faced  round 
to  her  door  again.  In  the  act  he  caught  sight  of  one  of  the 
D'Urberville  dames,  whose  portrait  was  immediately  oyer 
the  entrance  to  Tess's  bed-chamber.  In  the  candle-light 
the  painting  was  more  than  unpleasant.  Sinister  design 
hu'ked  in  its  features,  a  concentrated  i3urpose  of  reyenge 
on  the  other  sex — so  it  seemed  to  him  then.  The  Carohne 
bodice  of  the  portrait  was  low,  precisely  as  Tess's  had  been 
when  he  tucked  it  in  to  show  the  necklace ;  and  again  he 
experienced  the  distressing  sensation  of  a  resemblance  be- 
tween them. 

The  check  was  sufficient.  He  resumed  his  retreat,  and 
descended. 

His  au'  remained  calm  and  cold,  his  small,  compressed 
mouth  indexing  his  powers  of  self-control;  his  face  wear- 
ing still  that  terribly  sterile  expression  wliich  had  spread 
thereon  since  her  disclosure.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who 
was  no  longer  passion's  slaye,  yet  who  found  no  adyantage 
in  his  enfi'anchisement.  He  was  simply  regarding  the  har- 
rowing contingencies  of  human  experience,  the  unexpected- 
ness of  things.  Nothing  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  truthful  as 
Tess  had  seemed  possible  all  the  long  while  that  he  had 
adored  her,  up  to  an  hour  ago  ;  but 

The  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away ! 

He  argued  erroneously  when  he  said  to  himseK  that  her 
heart  was  not  indexed  in  the  honest  freshness  of  her  face  j 


268  TESS  OF  THE  D^URBERAaLLES. 

but  Tess  had  no  advocate  to  set  liim  right.  Could  it  be 
possible,  he  continued,  that  eyes  which  as  they  gazed  never 
expressed  any  divergence  from  what  the  tongue  was  telling, 
were  yet  ever  seeing  another  world  behind  her  apparent 
one,  discordant  and  contrasting  ? 

He  reclined  on  his  couch  in  the  sitting-room,  and  extin- 
guished the  light.  The  night  came  in,  and  took  up  its  place 
there,  unconcerned  and  indifferent;  the  night  which  had 
ah-eady  swallowed  up  his  happiness,  and  was  now  digesting 
it  listlessly ;  and  was  ready  to  swallow  up  the  happiness  of 
a  thousand  other  people  with  as  little  disturbance  or  change 
of  mien. 


XXXVI. 

Clare  arose  in  the  light  of  a  dawn  that  was  ashy  and 
furtive,  as  though  associated  with  crime.  The  fii-eplace 
confronted  him  mth  its  extinct  embers ;  the  spread  supper- 
table,  whereon  stood  the  two  full  glasses  of  untasted  wine, 
now  flat  and  filmv;  her  vacated  seat  and  his  own:  the 
other  articles  of  furniture,  with  theii-  eternal  look  of  not 
being  able  to  help  it,  their  intolerable  inquiiy  what  was 
to  be  done?  From  above  there  was  no  sound;  but  in  a 
few  minutes  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  remem- 
bered that  it  would  be  the  neighboring  cottager  s  \\if e,  who 
was  to  minister  to  their  wants  while  they  remained  here. 

The  presence  of  a  third  person  in  the  house  would  be  ex- 
tremely awkward  just  now,  and,  being  already  di-essed,  he 
opened  the  window,  and  informed  her  that  they  could  man- 
age to  shift  for  themselves  that  morning.  She  had  a  milk- 
can  in  her  hand,  which  he  told  her  to  leave  at  the  door. 
When  the  dame  had  gone  away  he  searched  in  the  back 
quarters  of  the  house  for  fuel,  and  speedily  lit  a  fire. 
There  was  plenty  of  eggs,  butter,  bread,  and  so  on  in  the 


THE  W0:MAN  pays.  269 

larder,  and  Clare  soon  had  breakfast  laid,  his  experiences  at 
the  daily  having  rendered  him  facile  in  domestic  prepara- 
tions. The  smoke  of  the  kindled  wood  rose  from  the 
chimney  without  like  a  lotus-headed  column  •  local  people 
who  were  passing  by  saw  it,  and  thought  of  the  newly 
married  couple,  and  envied  theii"  happiness. 

Angel  cast  a  final  glance  round,  and  then,  going  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  said,  "  Breakfast  is  ready." 

He  opened  the  front  door,  and  took  a  few  steps  in  the 
morning  air.  When,  after  a  short  space,  he  came  back,  she 
was  already  in  the  sitting-room,  mechanically  readjusting 
the  breakfast  things.  As  she  was  fully  attired,  and  the 
interval  since  his  calling  her  had  been  but  two  or  three 
minutes,  she  must  have  been  di'essed,  or  nearly  so,  before  he 
went  to  summon  her.  Her  hair  was  twisted  up  in  a  large 
round  mass  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  she  had  put  on  one 
of  the  new  frocks — a  pale  blue  woollen  garment  with  neck- 
frillings  of  white.  Her  hands  and  face  appeared  to  be 
cold,  and  she  had  possil^ty  been  sitting  dressed  in  the  bed- 
room a  long  time  without  anv  fire.  The  extreme  civilitv 
of  Clare's  tone  in  calling  her  seemed  to  have  inspired  her, 
for  the  moment,  witli  a  new  glimmer  of  hope.  But  it  soon 
died  when  she  looked  at  him. 

The  pair  were,  in  truth,  but  the  ashes  of  their  former  fires. 
To  the  hot  sorrow  of  the  previous  night  had  succeeded 
heaviness  5  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  coidd  kindle  either  of 
them  to  fervor  of  sensation  any  more. 

He  spoke  gently  to  her,  and  she  replied  with  a  hke  un- 
demonstrativeness.  At  last  she  came  wp  to  him,  looking 
in  his  sharply  defined  face  as  one  who  had  no  conscious- 
ness that  her  own  formed  a  visible  object  also. 

^'  Angel ! "  she  said,  and  paused,  touching  him  with  her 
fingers  lightly  as  a  breeze,  as  though  she  could  hardly  be- 
lieve to  be  there  in  the  flesh  the  man  who  was  once  her  lover. 
Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  cheek,  though  pale,  still  showed 
its  wonted  roundness,  though  dried  tears  had  left  a  \itrified 


270  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERA^LLES. 

glistening  thereon ;  and  tlie  usually  ripe  red  mouth  was 
almost  as  pale  as  her  cheek.  But  she  was  stilL  throbbingly 
alive,  notwithstanding  that  under  the  stress  of  her  mental 
grief  the  hf  e  beat  so  brokenly  that  a  little  f miher  pull  upon 
it  might  cause  real  illness,  render  her  eyes  didl,  uncharac- 
teristic, and  her  mouth  thin. 

But  she  looked  absolutely  pure.  Natm'e,  in  her  fantas- 
tic trickery,  had  set  such  a  seal  of  gu'hshness  upon  Tess's 
countenance  that  he  gazed  at  her  with  a  stupefied  air. 

'^  Tess !     Say  it  is  not  true  !     No,  it  is  not  true !  " 

"  It  is  true.''^ 

"  Every  word  ? " 

"  Every  word." 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly,  as  if  he  would  willingly 
have  taken  a  lie  from  her  li^^s,  knowing  it  to  be  one,  and 
have  made  of  it,  by  some  sort  of  sophistry,  a  vahd  denial. 
However,  she  only  repeated,  ''  It  is  true." 

"  Is  he  Hving  ? "  Angel  then  asked. 

"  The  baby  died." 

"But  the  man?" 

"  He  is  alive." 

A  last  despau-  passed  over  Clare's  face.  ''Is  he  in  Eng- 
land ? " 

"  Yes." 

He  took  a  few  steps  vaguely.  "  My  position — is  this,"  he 
said,  abruptly.  "  I  thought — any  man  would  have  thought 
— that  by  giving  up  aU  ambition  to  win  a  wife  mth  social 
standing,  with  fortune,  with  knowledge  of  the  workl,  I 
should  secure  rustic  innocence  as  surely  as  I  shoidd  secui-e 

pink  cheeks ;  but However,  I  am  no  man  to  reproach 

you,  and  I  will  not." 

Tess  felt  his  position  so  entu-ely  that  the  remainder  had 
not  been  needed.  Therein  lay  just  the  distress  of  it ;  she 
saw  that  he  had  lost  aU  round. 

"Angel — I  should  not  have  let  it  go  on  to  marriage 
with  'ee  if  I  had  not  known  that,  after  aU,  there  was  a  last 


THE  W0:MAN  pays.  271 

way  out  of  it  for  yoii ;  though  I  hoped  you  would  never " 

Her  voice  gi'ew  husky. 

<'A  last  way?" 

^'  I  mean,  to  get  rid  of  me.     You  can  get  rid  of  me." 

"  How  ? " 

'^  By  divorcing  me." 

"  Good  heavens — how  can  you  be  so  simple  !  How  can  I 
divorce  you  f  " 

"  Can't  you — now  I  have  told  you  this  ?  I  thought  my 
confession  woidd  give  you  grounds  for  that." 

"  O  Tess — you  are  too,  too — childish — unformed — crude, 
I  suppose  !  I  don't  know  what  you  are.  You  don't  under- 
stand the  law — vou  don't  understand  !  " 

"  What — vou  caimot  ? " 

"For  what  happened  before  our  marriage!  Indeed  I 
cannot." 

A  quick  shame  mixed  with  the  misery  upon  his  listener's 
face.  "  I  thought — I  thought,"  she  whispered.  "  O,  now  I 
see  how  wicked  I  seem  to  you.  Believe  me — beUeve  me, 
on  my  soul,  I  never  thought  but  that  you  could !  I  hoped 
you  would  not ;  yet  I  believed,  without  a  doubt,  that  you 
could  cast  me  off  if  you  were  determined,  and  didn't  love 
me  at — at — all !  " 

'^  You  were  mistaken,"  he  said. 

''  O,  then  I  ought  to  have  done  it,  to  have  done  it  last 
night !     But  I  hadn't  the  courage.     That's  just  like  me  !  " 

"  The  courage  to  do  what  ? " 

As  she  did  not  answer  he  took  her  by  the  hand.  "'  What 
were  you  thinking  of  doing  ? "  he  inquu*ed. 

"  Of  putting  an  end  to  myself." 

"  When  ? " 

She  writhed  under  this  inquisitorial  manner.  ''Last 
night,"  she  answered. 

"  Where  ? " 

"  Under  your  mistletoe." 

"My  good  God! — how?"  he  asked,  sternly. 


272  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  sii',  if  yon  won't  be  angry  with  me !  "  she 
said,  shrinking.  "  It  was  with  the  cord  of  my  box.  Bnt  I 
could  not — do  the  last  tiling !  I  was  afraid  that  it  might 
cause  a  scandal  to  your  name." 

The  unexpected  quality  of  this  confession,  T\Tung  from 
her,  and  not  volunteered,  shook  him  indescribably.  But 
he  still  held  her,  and,  letting  his  glance  fall  from  her  face 
do^ATi wards,  he  said  tremulously,  "  Now,  Usten  to  this.  You 
must  not  dare  to  think  of  such  a  horrible  thing!  How 
could  you !  You  will  promise  me  as  your  husband  to 
attempt  that  no  more." 

"  I  am  ready  to  promise.     I  saw  how  Tvicked  it  was.'^ 

"  Wicked !  The  idea  was  unworthy  of  you  beyond  de- 
scription." 

"But,  Angel,"  she  pleaded,  enlarging  her  eyes  in  calm 
unconcern  upon  him,  "  it  was  thought  of  entirely  on  your 
account — to  set  you  free  without  the  scandal  of  the  divorce 
that  I  thought  you  would  have  to  get.  I  should  never 
have  di^eamed  of  doing  it  on  mine.  However,  to  do  it  with 
my  own  hand  is  too  good  for  me,  after  all.  It  is  you,  my 
ruined  husband,  who  ought  to  strike  the  blow.  I  think  I 
should  love  you  more,  if  that  were  possible,  if  you  could 
bring  yourself  to  do  it,  since  there's  no  other  way  of  escape 
for  'ee.  I  feel  I  am  so  utterly  wortliless.  So  very  greatly 
in  the  way  !  " 

"  Ssh !  " 

"  Well,  since  you  say  so,  I  won't.  I  have  no  wish  opposed 
to  vours." 

He  knew  this  to  be  true  enough.  Since  the  desperation 
of  the  night  her  activities  had  dropped  to  zero,  and  there 
was  no  further  rashness  to  be  feared. 

Tess  tried  to  busy  herself  again  over  the  breakfast-table 
with  more  or  less  success,  and  thev  sat  down  both  on  the 
same  side,  so  that  their  glances  did  not  meet.  There  was 
at  first  something  awkward  in  hearing  each  other  eat  and 
drink,  but  this  could  not  be  escaped ;  moreover,  the  amount 


THE  WOIVIAN  PAYS.  273 

of  eating  done  was  small  on  both  sides.  Breakfast  over, 
he  rose,  and,  teUing  her  the  houi'  at  which  he  might  be  ex- 
pected to  diimer,  went  off  to  the  miller's  in  a  mechanical 
pursuance  of  the  plan  of  studying  that  business,  which  had 
been  his  only  practical  reason  for  coming  here. 

When  he  was  gone  Tess  stood  at  the  mndow,  and  pres- 
ently saw  his  form  crossing  the  great  stone  bridge  which 
conducted  to  the  mill  premises.  He  sank  behind  it,  crossed 
the  railway  be^^ond,  and  disappeared.  Then,  without  a  sigh, 
she  tm-ned  her  attention  to  the  room,  and  began  clearing 
the  table  and  setting  it  in  order. 

The  charwoman  soon  came.  Her  presence  was  at  first  a 
strain  upon  Tess,  but  afterwards  an  alleviation.  At  half- 
past  twelve  she  left  her  assistant  alone  in  the  kitchen,  and, 
returning  to  the  sitting-room,  waited  for  the  reappearance 
of  Angel's  form  behind  the  bridge. 

About  one  he  showed  himself.  Her  face  flushed,  although 
he  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  She  ran  to  the  kitchen  to 
get  the  dinner  served  by  the  time  he  shoidd  enter.  He 
went  fii-st  to  the  room  where  they  had  washed  their  hands 
together  the  day  before,  and  as  he  entered  the  sitting-room 
the  dish-covers  rose  from  the  dishes  as  if  by  his  oivn  motion. 

"  How  j)nnctual !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.     I  saw  you  coming  over  the  bridge,"  said  she. 

The  meal  was  passed  in  commonplace  talk  of  what  he  had 
been  doing  during  the  morning  at  the  Abbey  Mill,  of  the 
methods  of  bolting  and  the  old-fashioned  machinery,  which 
he  feared  would  not  enlighten  him  greatly  on  modern  im- 
proved methods,  some  of  it  seeming  to  have  been  in  use 
ever  since  the  days  it  ground  for  the  monks  in  the  adjoin- 
ing conventual  buildings — now  a  heap  of  ruins.  He  left 
the  house  again  in  the  com-se  of  an  hour,  coming  home  at 
dusk,  and  occupying  himself  through  the  evening  mth  his 
papers.  She  feared  she  was  in  the  way,  and,  when  the  old 
woman  was  gone,  retired  to  the  kitchen,  where  she  made 

herself  busy  as  well  as  she  could  for  more  than  an  hour. 
18 


274  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Clare's  shape  appeared  at  the  door.  '^Yon  must  not 
work  like  this/'  he  said.  "  Yoii  are  not  my  servant,  you 
know ;  you  are  my  wife." 

Her  face  brightened.  ''I  may  tliink  myself  that — in- 
deed?'' she  murmured  in  piteous  raiUer}^  "You  mean  in 
name !     Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  anytliing  more." 

"  You  may  think  so,  Tess !  You  are.  What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

^'  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  hastily,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"I  thought  I — because  I  am  not  respectable,  I  mean.  I 
told  you  I  thought  I  was  not  respectable  enough  long 
ago — and  I  didn't  want  to  marry  you,  on  that  account — 
only  you  ui'ged  me  !  " 

She  broke  into  sobs,  and  turned  her  back  to  him.  It 
would  almost  have  won  round  any  man  but  Angel  Clare. 
Within  the  remote  depths  of  his  constitution,  so  gentle  and 
affectionate  as  he  was  in  general,  there  lay  hidden  a  hard 
logical  deposit,  like  a  vein  of  metal  in  a  soft  loam,  which 
tui-ned  the  edge  of  everything  that  attempted  to  traverse  it. 
It  had  blocked  his  way  with  the  Chiu'ch;  it  blocked  his 
way  mth  Tess.  Moreover,  his  affection  itself  was  less  fii'e 
than  radiance,  and,  with  regard  to  the  other  sex,  when  he 
ceased  to  believe  he  ceased  to  follow;  contrasting  in  this 
with  many  impressionable  natures,  who  remain  sensuously 
infatuated  with  what  they  intellectually  despise.  When 
put  upon  his  mettle  his  power  of  seK-mastery  was  appalling 
— almost  inhuman.     He  waited  till  her  sobbing  ceased. 

^'  I  wish  half  the  women  in  England  were  as  respectable 
as  you,"  he  said,  in  an  ebullition  of  bitterness  against  wom- 
ankind in  general.  "  It  isn't  a  question  of  respectability, 
but  one  of  principle." 

He  spoke  such  things  as  these  and  more  of  a  kindred 
sort  to  her,  being  still  swayed  by  the  antipathetic  wave 
which  warps  direct  souls  with  such  persistence  when  once 
their  vision  finds  itself  mocked  by  appearances.  There 
was,  it  is  true,  underneath,  a  back  current  of  sympathy 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  275 

througli  which  a  woman  of  the  world  might  have  conquered 
him.  But  Tess  did  not  think  of  this ;  she  took  everything 
as  her  deserts,  and  hardly  opened  her  mouth.  The  firmness 
of  her  devotion  to  him  was  indeed  almost  pitiful ;  quick- 
tempered as  she  naturally  was,  nothing  that  he  could  say 
made  her  unseemly;  she  sought  not  her  own;  was  not 
provoked ;  thought  no  evil  of  his  treatment  of  her.  She 
might  just  now  have  been  Apostolic  Charity  herseK  returned 
to  a  self-seeking  modern  world. 

This  evening,  night,  and  morning  were  passed  precisely 
as  the  preceding  ones  had  been  passed.  On  one,  and  only 
one,  occasion  did  she — the  formerly  free  and  independent 
Tess — ventiu'e  to  make  any  advances.  It  was  on  the  tliird 
occasion  of  his  starting  after  a  meal  to  go  out  to  the  flour- 
mill.  As  he  was  leaving  the  table  he  said  ''  Good-by,"  and 
she  replied  in  the  same  words,  at  the  same  time  inclining 
her  mouth  in  the  way  of  his.  He  did  not  avail  liimself  of 
the  invitation,  sapng,  as  he  turned  hastily  aside,  "I  shall 
be  home  punctually." 

Tess  shrank  into  herself  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  Often 
enough  had  he  tried  to  reach  those  lips  against  her  consent 
— often  had  he  said  gaily  that  her  mouth  and  breath  tasted 
of  butter  and  eggs  and  milk  and  honey,  on  which  she  mainly 
Kved,  that  he  drew  sustenance  from  them,  and  other  follies 
of  that  sort.  But  he  did  not  care  for  them  now.  He  ob- 
served her  sudden  shrinking,  and  said  gently,  "  You  know, 
I  have  to  think  of  a  course.  It  was  imperative  that  we 
should  stay  together  a  little  while,  to  avoid  the  scandal  to 
you  that  would  have  resulted  from  our  immediate  parting. 
But  you  must  see  it  is  only  for  form's  sake." 

^'  Yes,"  said  Tess,  absently. 

He  went  out,  and  on  his  way  to  the  mill  stood  still,  and, 
faint  as  his  love  for  her  had  waned,  mshed  for  a  moment 
that  he  had  resj^onded  yet  more  kindly,  and  kissed  her  once 
at  least. 

Thus  they  lived  through  this  despairing  day  or  two ;  in 


276  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

the  same  house,  truly ;  hut  more  widely  apart  than  hef ore 
they  were  lovers.  It  was  evident  to  her  that  he  was,  as  he 
had  said,  li\dng  with  paralyzed  activities,  in  his  endeavor 
to  think  of  a  plan  of  procedure.  She  was  awe-stricken  to 
discover  such  determination  under  such  apparent  flexibility. 
She  no  longer  expected  forgiveness  now.  More  than  once 
she  thought  of  going  away  from  him  during  his  absence  at 
the  mill  5  but  she  feared  that  this,  instead  of  benefiting  him, 
might  be  the  means  of  hampering  and  humiliating  him  yet 
more,  if  it  should  become  known. 

Meanwhile  Clare  was  meditating  verily.  His  thought 
had  been  unsuspended ;  he  was  becoming  ill  with  thinking ; 
eaten  out  with  thinking,  mthered  by  thinking;  scourged 
out  of  all  his  former  pulsating,  flexuous  domesticity.  He 
walked  about  saying  to  himself,  ^^  What's  to  be  done — what's 
to  be  done  ? "  and  by  chance  she  overheard  him.  It  caused 
her  to  break  the  reserve  about  their  f utm^e  which  had  hith- 
erto prevailed. 

"  I  suppose — you  are  not  going  to  live  wi'  me — long,  are 
you.  Angel  ? "  she  asked,  the  sunk  corners  of  her  mouth  be- 
traying how  purely  mechanical  were  the  means  by  which 
she  retained  that  expression  of  chastened  calm  upon  her 
face. 

^•I  cannot,"  he  said,  "without  despising  myself,  and  what 
is  worse,  perhaps,  despising  you.  I  mean,  of  course,  can- 
not live  with  you  in  the  ordinary  sense.  At  present,  what- 
ever I  feel,  I  do  not  despise  you.  And,  since  we  have  begun 
to  speak,  Tess,  let  me  speak  plainly,  otherwise  you  may 
not  perceive  aU  my  difficulties.  How  can  we  hve  together 
while  that  man  lives,  he  being  your  husband  in  the  sight  of 
Nature,  if  not  really  ?  Now  I  put  it  to  you.  Don't  think 
of  me  or  of  yourself,  my  feelings  or  your  feehngs.  That's 
not  all  the  difficulty ;  it  lies  in  another  consideration — one 
bearing  upon  the  future  of  other  people  than  ourselves. 
Tliink  of  years  to  come,  and  children  born  to  us,  and  this 
past  matter  getting  known — for  it  must  get  known.    Black- 


'   ^HE  W03IAN  PAYS.  277 

moor  Vale  and  The  Chase,  even  the  vonder  side  of  it,  are 
not  such  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  that  nobody  ever 
comes  from  or  goes  to  them  from  elsewhere.  Well,  think 
of  these  Avretches  of  our  flesh  and  blood  growing  up  under 
doubts  which  they  will  gradually  get  to  feel  the  full  force 
of  with  then'  expanding  years.  What  an  awakening  for 
them  !  What  a  prospect !  Can  you  honestly  say  Remain, 
after  contemplating  this  contingency?  Don't  you  think 
we  had  better  endure  the  ills  we  have  than  flv  to  others  f " 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyelids,  weighted  with  trouble. 

"  I  cannot  sav  Remain,'^  she  answered.  "  I  cannot ;  I  had 
not  thought  so  far.'' 

Tess's  feminine  hope — shall  we  confess  it — had  been  so 
obstinately  recuperative  as  to  revive  in  her  surreptitious 
visions  of  a  domiciliary  intimacy  continued  long  enough 
to  break  down  his  coldness  even  against  his  judgment. 
Though  unsophisticated  in  the  usual  sense,  she  was  not  in- 
complete ;  and  it  Avould  have  denoted  deficiency  of  woman- 
hood if  she  had  not  instinctively  knowm  what  an  argument 
lies  in  propinquity.  Nothing  else  would  serve  her,  she 
knew,  if  tliis  failed.  It  was  "v\Tong  to  hope  in  what  was  of 
the  natm'e  of  strategy,  she  said  to  herseK :  yet  that  sort  of 
hope  she  could  not  extinguish.  His  last  representation  had 
now  been  made,  and  it  was,  as  sne  said,  a  new  view.  She 
had  truly  never  thought  so  far  as  that,  and  his  lucid  picture 
of  possible  offspring  who  would  scorn  her  was  one  that 
brought  deadly  conviction  to  an  honest  heart  which  was 
humanitarian  to  its  centre.  Sheer  experience  had  already 
taught  her,  that,  in  some  circumstances,  there  was  one 
thing  better  than  to  lead  a  good  life,  and  that  was  to  be 
saved  from  leading  any  life  whatever.  Like  aU  w^ho  had 
been  pre\dsioned  by  suffering,  she  could,  in  the  words  of 
M.  Sully-Prudhomme,  hear  a  penal  sentence  in  the  fiat, 
^'  You  shall  be  born." 

Yet  such  is  the  vulpine  slyness  of  Dame  Natm-e,  that,  till 
now,  Tess  had  been  hoodwinked  bv  her  love  for  Clare  into 


278  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

forgetting  it  might  result  in  vitalizations  that  v/oiild  inflict 
npon  others  what  she  had  bewailed  as  a  misfortune  to  her- 
self. 

She  therefore  could  not  withstand  his  argument.  But 
with  the  self -combating  proclivity  of  the  supersensitive,  an 
answer  thereto  arose  in  Clare's  own  mind^  and  he  almost 
feared  it.  It  was  based  on  her  exceptional  physical  nature ; 
and  she  might  have  used  it  promisingly.  Moreover,  she 
might  have  added:  "On  an  Australian  upland  or  Texan 
plain,  who  is  to  know  or  care  about  my  misfortunes,  or  to 
reproach  me  or  you?"  Yet,  like  the  majority  of  women, 
she  accepted  the  momentary  presentment  as  if  it  were  the 
inevitable.  And  she  may  have  been  right.  The  heart  of 
woman  knoweth  not  only  its  own  bitterness,  but  its  hus- 
band's, and  who  should  say  that,  even  if  these  assumed  re- 
proaches were  not  likely  to  be  addressed  to  him  or  to  his 
by  strangers,  they  might  not  have  reached  his  ears  from 
liis  own  fastidious  brain. 

It  was  the  third  day  of  the  estrangement.  Some  might 
risk  the  odd  paradox  that  with  more  animalism  he  would 
have  been  the  nobler  man.  We  do  not  say  it.  Yet  Clare's 
love  was  ethereal  to  a  fault,  imaginative  to  impracticability. 
With  these  natures,  corporeal  presence  is  sometimes  less 
appealing  than  corporeal  absence;  the  latter  creating  an 
ideal  presence  that  conveniently  drops  the  defects  of  the 
real.  She  found  that  her  personality  did  not  plead  her 
cause  so  forcibly  as  she  had  anticipated.  The  figurative 
phrase  was  true :  she  was  another  woman  than  the  one 
who  had  excited  his  desire. 

"  I  have  thought  over  what  you  say,"  she  remarked  to 
him,  moving  her  forefinger  over  the  table-cloth,  her  other 
hand,  which  bore  the  ring  that  mocked  them  both,  support- 
ing her  forehead.  "  It  is  quite  true,  all  of  it  j  it  must  be. 
You  must  go  away  from  me." 

"  But  what  can  you  do  ? " 

"  I  can  go  home." 


THE   WOMAN   PAYS.  279 

Clare  had  not  thought  of  that.     "  Ai'e  yon  sure  ? "  he  said. 

"  Quite  siu-e.  We  ought  to  part,  and  we  may  as  well  get 
it  past  and  done.  You  once  said  that  I  was  apt  to  win 
men  against  their  better  judgment  5  and  if  I  am  constantly 
before  yoiu'  eyes  I  may  cause  you  to  change  your  plans  in 
opposition  to  your  reason  and  wish ;  and  afterwards  your 
repentance  and  my  sorrow  will  be  terrible." 

He  was  silent.  "And  you  would  like  to  go  home?''  he 
asked. 

"  I  want  to  leave  you,  and  go  home." 

"  Then  it  shall  be  so." 

Though  she  did  not  look  up  at  him,  she  started.  There 
was  a  difference  between  the  proposition  and  the  covenant, 
which  she  had  felt  only  too  quickly. 

"  I  feared  it  would  come  to  this,"  she  mui'mured,  her  coun- 
tenance meekly  fixed.  ''I  don't  complain,  Angel.  I — I 
tliink  it  best.  What  you  said  has  quite  convinced  me. 
Yes — though  nobody  else  should  reproach  me,  if  we  should 
stay  together,  yet  somewhen,  years  hence,  you  might  get 
angry  with  me  for  any  ordinary  matter,  and  knowing  what 
you  do  of  my  bygones,  you  yourself  might  be  tempted  to 
say  words,  and  they  might  be  overheard,  perhaps  by  my 
own  children.  0,  what  only  hurts  me  now  would  torture 
and  kill  me  then  !     I  will  go — to-morrow." 

"  And  I  shall  not  stay  here.  Though  I  did  not  like  to 
intimate  it,  I  have  seen  that  it  was  advisable  we  should 
part — at  least  for  a  while,  till  I  can  better  see  the  shape  that 
things  have  taken,  and  can  write  to  you." 

Tess  stole  a  glance  at  her  husband.  He  was  pale,  even 
tremulous ;  but,  as  before,  she  was  appalled  by  the  deter- 
mination revealed  in  the  depths  of  this  gentle  being  she  had 
married — the  will  to  subdue  the  grosser  emotion  to  the  sub- 
tler emotion,  the  substance  to  the  conception,  the  flesh  to 
the  spirit.  Propensities,  tendencies,  habits,  were  as  dead 
leaves  upon  the  tyrannous  wind  of  his  imaginative  ascend- 
ency. 


^80  TESS   OP   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

He  may  have  observed  lier  look,  for  lie  explained :  "I 
think  of  people  more  kindly  when  I  am  away  from  them ;  " 
adding  cynically,  "God  knows;  perhaps  we  shall  shake 
down  together  some  day,  for  weariness;  thousands  have 
done  it ! " 

That  day  he  began  to  pack  up,  and  she  went  upstairs 
and  began  to  pack  also.  Both  knew  that  it  was  in  their 
two  minds  that  they  might  part  the  next  morning  forever, 
despite  the  gloss  of  assuaging  conjectm'es  thrown  over  their 
proceeding  by  reason  of  their  being  of  the  sort  to  whom 
any  parting  which  has  an  air  of  finality  about  it  is  a  tor- 
ture. He  knew,  and  she  knew,  that,  though  the  fascination 
which  each  had  exercised  over  the  other — on  her  part  in- 
dependently of  accomplishments — would  probably  in  the 
first  days  of  their  separation  be  even  more  potent  than 
ever,  time  must  attenuate  that  effect ;  the  practical  argu- 
ments against  accepting  her  as  a  housemate  would  pro- 
nounce themselves  more  strongly  in  the  boreal  light  of  a 
remoter  time.  Moreover,  when  two  people  are  once  parted 
— have  abandoned  a  common  domicile  and  a  common  en- 
wonment — new  growths  insensibly  bud  upward  to  fill 
each  vacated  place ;  unforeseen  accidents  hinder  intentions, 
and  old  plans  are  forgotten. 


XXXVII. 


Midnight  came  and  passed  silently,  for  there  was  noth- 
ing to  announce  it  in  the  Valley  of  the  Var. 

Not  long  after  one  o'clock  there  was  a  slight  creak  in  the 
darkened  old  farmhouse  once  the  mansion  of  the  D'Urber- 
villes.  Tess,  who  used  the  upper  chamber,  heard  it  and 
awoke.  It  had  come  from  the  three-cornered  step  of  the 
stau'case,  which,  as  usual,  was  loosely  nailed.     She  saw  the 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  281 

door  of  her  bedi'oom  open,  and  the  figure  of  her  husband 
crossed  the  stream  of  moonlight  with  a  cmiously  careful 
tread.  He  was  in  his  shii^t  and  trousers  only,  and  her  first 
flush  of  joy  died  when  she  perceived  that  his  eyes  were  fixed 
in  an  unnatural  stare  on  vacancy.  When  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  room  he  stood  still  and  murmured,  in  tones 
of  indescribable  sadness,  "  Dead  !  dead  !  dead  !  " 

Under  the  influence  of  any  strongly  distui'bing  force 
Clare  woidd  occasionally  walk  in  his  sleep,  and  even  per- 
form strange  feats,  such  as  he  had  done  on  the  night  of 
theii'  return  from  market  just  before  their  marriage,  when 
he  re-enacted  in  his  bedroom  his  combat  with  the  man  who 
had  insulted  her.  Tess  saw  that  continued  mental  distress 
had  T\Tought  that  somnambulistic  state  in  him  now. 

Her  loyal  confidence  in  him  lay  so  deep  down  in  her 
heart  that,  awake  or  asleep,  he  inspired  her  with  no  sort  of 
personal  fear.  If  he  had  entered  with  a  pistol  in  liis  hand 
he  would  scarcely  have  disturbed  her  trust  in  his  protec- 
tiveness. 

Clare  came  close,  and  bent  over  her.  "  Dead,  dead,  dead !  " 
he  mui'mured. 

After  fixedly  regarding  her  for  some  moments  with  the 
same  gaze  of  unmeasiu-able  woe  he  bent  lower,  enclosed 
her  in  his  arms,  and  rolled  her  in  the  sheet  as  in  a  shroud. 
Then  lifting  her  from  the  bed  with  as  much  respect  as  one 
would  show  to  a  dead  bodv  in  such  cii'cumstances,  he  car- 
ried  her  across  the  room,  murmuring,  ^'  My  poor,  poor  Tess 
— my  dearest,  darling  Tess  !     So  sweet,  so  good,  so  true  !  " 

The  words  of  endearment,  withheld  so  severely  in  his 
waking  hours,  were  inexpressibly  sweet  to  her  forlorn  and 
hungry  heart.  If  it  had  been  to  save  her  weary  life  she 
would  not,  by  mo\ing  or  struggling,  have  put  an  end  to 
the  position  she  found  herself  in.  Thus  she  lay  in  absolute 
stdlness,  scarcely  venturing  to  breathe,  and,  wondering  what 
he  was  going  to  do  with  her,  suffered  herself  to  be  borne 
out  upon  the  landing. 


282  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Mv  mfe — dead,  dead  !  "  he  said. 

He  paused  in  his  labors  for  a  moment  to  lean  with  her 
against  the  banister.  Was  he  going  to  thi'ow  her  down  ? 
Self -solicitude  was  near  extinction  in  her,  and  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  planned  to  depart  from  her  on  the  mor- 
row, possibly  for  always,  she  lay  in  his  arms  in  this  pre- 
carious position  mtli  rather  a  sense  of  luxury  than  a  sense 
of  terror.  If  they  coidd  only  fall  together,  and  both  be 
dashed  to  pieces,  how  fit,  how  desirable  ! 

However,  he  did  not  let  her  fall,  but  took  advantage  of 
the  support  of  the  handrail  to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her  lips 
— lips  in  the  daytime  scorned.  Then  he  clasped  her  with 
a  renewed  fii^mness  of  hold,  and  descended  the  staircase. 
The  creak  of  the  corner  stair  did  not  awaken  him,  and  they 
reached  the  ground-floor  safely.  Freeing  one  of  his  hands 
from  its  grasp  of  her  for  a  moment,  he  sHd  back  the  door- 
bar  and  passed  out,  slightly  striking  his  stockinged  toe 
against  the  edge  of  the  door.  But  this  he  seemed  not  to 
mind,  and,  having  room  for  extension  in  the  open  aii',  he 
got  her  upon  his  shoulder,  so  that  he  could  carry  her  ^xiih. 
more  ease,  the  absence  of  clothes  taking  much  from  his 
burden.  Thus  he  bore  her  off  the  premises,  in  the  direction 
of  the  river,  a  few  vards  distant. 

His  ultimate  intention,  if  he  had  any,  she  had  not  yet 
di\dned ;  and  she  found  herself  conjecturing  on  the  matter 
as  a  third  person  might  have  done.  So  easefully  had  she 
delivered  her  whole  being  up  to  liim  that  it  pleased  her  to 
think  he  was  regarding  her  as  his  absolute  possession,  to 
dispose  of  as  he  sliould  choose.  It  was  consoling,  under 
the  hovering  terror  of  to-morrow's  separation,  to  feel  that 
he  really  recognized  her  now  as  his  wife  Tess,  and  did  not 
cast  her  off,  even  if  in  that  recognition  he  went  so  far  as  to 
arrogate  to  himself  the  right  of  harming  her. 

Ah !  now  she  knew  he  was  dreaming  of — that  Sunday 
morning  when  he  had  borne  her  along  through  the  water 
with  the  other  dairymaids,  who  had  loved  him  nearly  as 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  283 

much  as  she,  if  tliat  were  possible,  wliich  Tess  coiild  liardly 
admit.  Clare  did  not  cross  the  bridge  with  her,  but  pro- 
ceeding several  paces  on  the  same  side  towards  the  adjoin- 
ing mill,  at  length  stood  still  on  the  brink  of  the  Froom. 

Its  waters,  in  creeping  dowTi  these  miles  of  meadow-land, 
frequently  divided,  serpentining  in  purposeless  ciuwes,  loop- 
ing themselves  around  little  islands  that  had  no  name,  re- 
turning, and  re-embodying  themselves  as  a  broad  main 
stream  farther  on.  Opposite  the  spot  to  which  he  had 
brought  her  was  such  a  general  confluence,  and  the  river 
was  proportionately  voluminous  and  deep.  Across  it  was 
a  narrow  foot-bridge;  but  now  the  autumn  rains  had 
washed  the  handrail  away,  leaving  the  bare  plank  only, 
which,  lying  a  few  inches  above  the  speeding  current, 
formed  a  giddy  pathway  for  even  steady  heads ;  and  Tess 
had  noticed  from  the  window  of  the  house  in  the  daytime 
young  men  trying  to  cross  upon  it  as  a  feat  in  balancing. 
Her  husband  had  possibly  observed  the  same  performance ; 
anyhow,  he  now  mounted  the  bridge,  and,  shding  one  foot 
forward,  advanced  along  it. 

Was  he  going  to  drown  her?  Probably  he  was.  The 
spot  was  lonely,  the  river  deep  and  wide  enough  to  make 
such  a  purpose  easy  of  accomplishment.  He  might  drown 
her  if  he  would ;  it  would  be  better  than  parting  to-morrow 
to  lead  severed  lives. 

The  swift  stream  raced  and  gyrated  under  them,  tossing, 
distorting,  and  splitting  the  moon's  reflected  face.  Spots  of 
froth  travelled  past,  and  intercepted  weeds  waved  behind 
the  piles.  If  they  could  both  fall  together  into  the  cui'rent 
now,  their  arms  would  be  so  tightly  clasped  together  that 
they  could  not  be  saved ;  they  would  go  out  of  the  world 
almost  painlessly,  and  there  would  be  no  more  reproach  to 
her,  or  to  him  for  marrying  her.  His  last  half -hour  with 
her  would  have  been  a  loving  one,  while  if  they  lived  till 
he  awoke  his  daytime  aversion  would  return,  and  this  hour 
would  remain  to  be  contemplated  only  as  a  transient  dream. 


284  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

The  impulse  stirred  in  lier,  yet  she  dared  not  indulge  it, 
to  make  a  movement  that  would  have  precipitated  them 
both  into  the  gulf.  How  she  valued  her  own  life  had  been 
proved ;  but  his — she  had  no  right  to  tamper  with  it.  He 
reached  the  other  side  with  her  in  safetv. 

Here  they  were  witliin  a  plantation  which  formed  the 
Abbey  grounds,  and  taking  a  new  hold  of  her,  he  went  on- 
ward a  few  steps  tiU  they  reached  the  ruined  choir  of  the 
Abbey  church.  Against  the  north  wall  was  the  empty 
stone  coffin  of  an  abbot,  without  a  lid,  in  which  every  tour- 
ist mth  a  turn  for  grim  humor  was  accustomed  to  stretch 
himself.  In  this  Clare  carefulty  laid  Tess.  Having  kissed 
her  lips  a  second  time,  he  breathed  deeply,  as  if  a  gTcatly 
desired  end  were  attained.  Clare  then  laid  do^\Ti  beside 
her,  when  he  immediately  fell  into  the  deep  dead  slumber 
of  exhaustion,  and  remained  motionless  as  a  log.  Tlie 
spurt  of  mental  excitement  which  had  produced  the  effort 
was  now  over. 

Tess  sat  up  in  the  coffin.  The  night,  though  dry  and 
mild  for  the  season,  was  more  than  sufficientlv  cold  to 
make  it  dangerous  for  him  to  remain  here  long,  in  liis  half- 
clothed  state.  If  he  were  left  to  himself,  he  would  in  all 
probability  stay  there  till  the  moi'ning,  and  be  chilled  to 
certain  death.  She  had  heard  of  such  deaths  after  sleej)- 
walking.  But  how  could  she  dare  to  awaken  him,  and  let 
him  know  what  he  had  been  doing,  when  it  would  mortif}" 
him  to  discover  his  folly  in  respect  of  her  ?  Tess,  however, 
stepping  out  of  her  stone  confine,  shook  liim  slightly^  but 
was  unable  to  arouse  him  without  being  violent.  It  was 
indispensable  to  do  something,  for  she  was  beginning  to 
shiver,  the  sheet  being  but  a  poor  protection.  Her  excite- 
ment had  in  a  measure  kept  her  warm  during  the  advent- 
ure ;  but  that  beatific  interval  was  over. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  her  to  try  persuasion ;  and  ac- 
cordingl}^  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  with  as  much  firmness 
and  decision  as  she  could  summon,  "  Let  us  walk  on,  dar- 


THE  W03IAN  PAYS.  285 

liiig/'  at  tlie  same  time  taking  liim  suggestively  by  the  arm. 
To  her  relief,  he  unresistingly  acquiesced ;  her  words  had 
apparently  thrown  him  back  into  his  di'eam,  which  thence- 
forward seemed  to  enter  on  a  new  phase,  wherein  he  fancied 
she  had  risen  as  a  spirit,  and  was  leading  him  to  Heaven. 
Thus  she  conducted  him  by  the  arm  to  the  stone  bridge  in 
front  of  theii^  residence,  crossing  which  they  stood  at  the 
manor-house  door.  Tess's  feet  were  quite  bare,  and  the 
stones  hurt  her,  and  chilled  her  to  the  bone ;  but  Clare  was 
in  his  woollen  stockings,  and  appeared  to  feel  no  discomfort. 

There  was  no  further  difficulty.  She  induced  him  to  he 
down  on  his  own  sofa-bed,  and  covered  him  up  warmly, 
lighting  a  temporary  fire  of  wood,  to  dry  any  dampness 
out  of  him.  The  noise  of  these  attentions  she  thought 
might  awaken  him,  and  secretly  wished  that  they  might. 
But  the  exhaustion  of  his  mind  and  body  was  such  that  he 
remained  undisturbed. 

As  soon  as  they  met  the  next  morning,  Tess  divined  that 
Angel  knew  little  or  nothing  of  how  far  she  had  been  con- 
cerned in  the  night's  excursion,  though  as  regarded  himself 
he  may  have  had  an  inkling  that  he  had  not  lain  still.  In 
truth,  he  had  awakened  that  morning  from  a  sleep  deep  as 
anniliilation ;  and  dui'ing  those  fii'st  few  moments  in  which 
the  brain,  like  a  Samson  shaking  himself,  is  trying  its 
strength,  he  had  some  dim  notion  of  an  unusual  nocturnal 
proceeding.  But  the  realities  of  his  situation  soon  dis- 
placed conjecture  on  the  other  subject. 

He  waited  in  expectancy  to  discern  some  mental  point- 
ing ;  he  knew  that  if  any  intention  of  his,  concluded  over- 
night, did  not  vanish  in  the  light  of  morning,  it  stood  on  a 
basis  approximating  to  one  of  pure  reason,  even  if  initiated 
by  impulse  of  feeling  5  that  it  was  so  far,  therefore,  to  be 
trusted. 

He  thus  beheld  in  the  pale  morning  light  the  resolve  to 
separate  from  her ;  not  as  a  hot  and  indignant  instinct,  but 
denuded  of  the  passionateness  which  had  made  it  scorch 


286  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

and  burn ;  standing  in  its  bones ;  nothing  but  a  skeleton, 
but  none  the  less  there.     Clare  no  longer  hesitated. 

At  breakfast,  and  while  they  were  packing  the  few  re- 
maining articles,  he  showed  his  weariness  from  the  night's 
effort  so  unmistakably  that  Tess  was  on  the  point  of  speak- 
ing and  revealmg  all  that  had  happened ;  but  the  reflection 
that  it  would  anger  him,  grieve  him,  stultify  him,  by  letting 
him  know  that  he  had  instinctively  manifested  a  fondness 
for  her  of  which  his  common-sense  did  not  approve  j  that 
his  inclination  had  compromised  his  dignity  when  reason 
slept,  again  deterred  her.  It  was  too  much  hke  laughing  at 
a  man  when  sol.^er  for  his  erratic  deeds  during  intoxication. 

It  just  crossed  her  mind,  too,  that  he  might  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  his  tender  vagary,  and  was  disinchned  to 
allude  to  it  from  a  con^dction  that  she  would  take  advan- 
tage of  the  undoubted  oj^portunity  it  gave  her  of  appealing 
to  him  anew  not  to  go. 

He  had  ordered  by  letter  a  vehicle  from  the  nearest 
town,  and  soon  after  breakfast  it  arrived.  She  saw  in  it 
the  beginning  of  the  end — the  temporary  end,  at  least,  for 
the  revelation  of  his  tenderness  by  the  incident  of  the 
night  led  her  to  think  of  a  possible  future  mth  him.  The 
luggage  was  put  on  the  top,  and  the  man  di'ove  them  off, 
the  miller  and  the  old  waiting- woman  expressing  some  sur- 
prise at  theii'  precipitate  departm^e,  which  Clare  attributed 
to  his  discovery  that  the  mill- work  was  not  of  the  modern 
kind  which  he  wished  to  investigate,  a  statement  that  was 
true  so  far  as  it  went.  Beyond  this  there  was  nothing  in 
the  manner  of  their  lea^dng  to  suggest  ^fiasco,  or  that  they 
were  not  going  together  to  visit  friends. 

Their  route  lay  near  the  dairy  from  which  they  had 
started  with  such  solemn  joy  in  each  other  a  few  days  back, 
and  as  Clare  wished  to  wind  up  his  business  with  Mr.  Crick, 
Tess  could  hardly  avoid  paying  Mrs.  Crick  a  call  at  the 
same  time,  unless  she  would  excite  suspicion  of  their  un- 
happy state. 


THE  WOiVIAN  PAYS.  287 

To  make  the  call  as  unobtrusive  as  possible  tliey  left  tlie 
carriage  at  the  end  of  the  short  lane  leading  down  from 
the  high  road  to  the  dairy-house,  and  descended  the  track 
on  foot,  side  by  side.  The  withy-bed  had  been  cut,  and 
they  could  see  over  the  stumps  the  spot  on  wliich  Clare  had 
followed  her  when  he  pressed  her  to  be  his  wife ;  to  the 
left  the  enclosure  in  w^hich  she  had  been  fascinated  by  his 
harp ;  and  far  away  over  the  roofs  of  the  cowstaUs,  the 
mead  which  had  been  the  scene  of  their  first  embrace.  The 
gold  of  the  summer  picture  was  now  gi'ay,  the  colors  mean, 
the  rich  soil  mud,  and  the  river  cold. 

Over  the  barton-gate  the  dauyman  saw  them,  and  came 
forward,  tlu^owing  into  liis  face  the  kind  of  joviality  deemed 
appropriate  in  Talbothays  and  its  vicinity  on  the  reappear- 
ance of  the  newly  married.  Then  Mrs.  Crick  emerged  from 
the  house,  and  several  others  of  their  old  acquaintance, 
though  Marian  and  Retty  did  not  appear  to  be  there. 

Tess  valiantly  bore  their  sly  attacks  and  friendly  humors, 
which  affected  her  far  otherwise  than  they  supposed.  In 
the  tacit  agTcement  of  husband  and  wife  to  keep  their 
estrangement  a  secret  they  behaved  as  would  have  been 
ordinary.  And  then,  although  she  would  rather  there  had 
been  no  word  spoken  on  the  subject,  Tess  had  to  hear  in 
detail  the  story  of  Marian  and  Retty.  The  latter  had  gone 
home  to  her  father's,  and  Marian  had  left  to  look  for  em- 
plojonent  elsewhere.  They  feared  she  would  come  to  no 
good. 

To  dissipate  the  sadness  of  this  recital  Tess  went  and 
bade  all  her  favorite  cows  good-by,  touching  each  of  them 
with  her  hand,  and  as  she  and  Clare  stood  side  by  side  at 
leaving  as  if  united  body  and  soul,  there  would  have  been 
something  peculiarly  sorry  in  their  aspect  to  one  who 
should  have  seen  it  truly :  two  limbs  of  one  life,  as  they 
outwardly  were,  his  arm  touching  hers,  her  sku'ts  touching 
him,  facing  one  way,  as  against  all  the  dairy  facing  the 
other,  speaking  in  theu*  adieux  as  "  we,"  and  yet  sundered 


288  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

like  the  poles.  Perhaps  something  unusually  stiff  and  em- 
barrassed in  their  attitude,  some  awkwardness  in  acting  up 
to  theii'  profession  of  unity,  different  from  the  natural  shy- 
ness of  young  couples,  may  have  been  apparent,  for  when 
they  were  gone  Mrs.  Crick  said  to  her  husband,  "  How  on- 
natural  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  did  seem,  and  how  the 
pair  stood  like  waxen  images  and  talked  as  if  they  were 
in  a  dream  !  Didn't  it  strike  'ee  that  'twas  so  ?  Tess  had 
always  sommat  strange  in  her,  and  she's  not  now  quite  Hke 
the  proud  young  bride  of  a  well-be-doing  man." 

They  re-entered  the  vehicle,  and  were  driven  along  the 
roads  through  Weatherbury  and  Stagfoot  Lane,  till  they 
reached  Nuzzlebury,  where  Clare  dismissed  the  fly  and  man. 
They  rested  here  awhile,  and  entering  the  Vale  w^ere  next 
diiven  onward  towards  her  home  by  a  stranger  who  did 
not  know  their  new  relationship.  At  a  midway  point, 
when  many  miles  had  been  passed  over,  and  where  there 
were  cross-roads,  Clare  stopped  the  man,  and  said  to  Tess 
that  if  she  meant  to  return  to  her  mother's  house  it  was 
here  that  he  would  leave  her.  As  they  could  not  talk  with 
freedom  in  the  driver's  presence,  he  asked  her  to  accompany 
him  for  a  few  steps  on  foot  along  one  of  the  branch  roads ; 
she  assented,  and  directing  the  man  to  wait  a  few  minutes, 
they  strolled  away. 

^^Now,  let  us  understand  each  other,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  There  is  no  anger  between  us,  though  there  is  that  which 
I  cannot  endure  at  present.  I  will  try  to  bring  myself  to 
endure  it.  I  will  let  you  know  where  I  go  to  as  soon  as  I 
know  myself.  And  if  I  can  bring  myself  to  bear  it — if  it 
is  desirable,  possible — I  will  come  to  you.  But  until  I  come 
to  you  it  will  be  better  that  you  should  not  try  to  come  to 
me." 

The  severity  of  the  decree  seemed  deadly  to  Tess ;  she 
saw  his  view  of  her  clearly  enough ;  he  could  regard  her  in 
no  other  light  than  that  of  one  who  had  practised  gross  de- 
ceit upon  him.     Yet  could  a  woman  who  had  done  even 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  289 

what  slie  had  done  deserve  all  this  ?  But  she  could  contest 
the  point  with  him  no  fui'ther.  She  simply  repeated  after 
him  his  own  words. 

"  Until  you  come  to  me  I  must  not  try  to  come  to  you?" 

^^  Just  so." 

''  May  I  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes — if  you  are  ill^  or  want  anything  at  all.  I  hope 
that  will  not  be  the  case ;  so  that  it  may  happen  that  I 
write  fii'st  to  you." 

"I  agree  to  the  conditions,  Angel;  because  you  know 
best  what  my  punishment  ought  to  be ;  only — only — don't 
'ee  make  it  more  than  I  can  bear !  " 

That  was  all  she  said  on  the  matter.  If  Tess  had  been 
artful,  had  she  made  a  scene,  fainted,  wept  hysterically,  in 
that  lonely  lane,  notwithstanding  the  fury  of  fastidiousness 
with  which  he  was  possessed,  he  would  probably  not  have 
withstood  her.  But  her  mood  of  long-suffering  made  his 
way  easy  for  him,  and  she  herself  was  his  best  advocate. 
In  her  submission — which  perhaps  was  a  symptom  of  that 
reckless  acquiescence  in  chance  too  apparent  in  the  whole 
D'Urberville  family — the  many  effective  chords  which  she 
could  have  stirred  by  an  appeal  were  left  untouched. 

The  remainder  of  their  discourse  was  on  practical  matters 
only.  He  now  handed  her  a  packet  containing  a  fairly 
good  sum  of  money,  which  he  had  obtained  from  his  bank- 
ers for  the  purpose.  The  brilliants,  the  interest  in  which 
seemed  to  be  Tess's  for  her  life  only  (if  he  understood  the 
wording  of  the  will),  he  advised  her  to  let  him  send  to  a 
bank  for  safetv ;  and  to  this  she  readilv  asreed. 

These  things  arranged,  he  walked  with  Tess  back  to  the 
carriage,  and  handed  her  in.  He  jDaid  the  coachman,  and 
told  him  where  to  di'ive  her.  Taking  then  his  own  bag 
and  umbrella — the  sole  articles  he  had  brought  with  him 
hitherwards — he  bade  her  good-])y ;  and  they  parted  there 
and  then. 

The  fly  mo^ed  creepingly  up  the  hill,  and  Clare  watched 

19 


290  TESS   OP   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

it  go  with  an  unpremeditated  liope  that  Tess  wonld  look 
out  of  the  window  for  one  moment.  But  that  she  never 
thought  of  doing,  would  not  have  ventured  to  do,  lying  in 
a  half-dead  faint  inside.  Thus  he  watched  her  out  of  sight, 
and  in  the  anguish  of  his  heart  quoted  a  hue  of  a  poet 
with  a  few  improvements  of  his  own : 

God's  not  in  His  heaven  :  all's  icrong  with  the  world  ! 

When  Tess  had  passed  over  the  crest  of  the  hill  he  tmmed 
to  go  his  own  way,  and  did  not  know  that  he  loved  her  still. 


XXXYIII. 


As  she  drove  on  through  Blackmoor  Vale,  and  the  land- 
scape of  her  youth  began  to  open  around  her,  Tess  aroused 
herself  from  her  stupor.  Her  fii'st  thought  was  how  would 
she  be  able  to  face  her  parents  ? 

She  reached  the  turnpike  gate  which  stood  near  the  en- 
trance to  the  village.  It  was  thrown  open  by  a  stranger, 
not  by  the  old  man  who  had  kept  it  for  many  years,  and 
to  whom  she  had  been  kno\\Ti ;  he  had  probal^ly  left  on 
New  Yeai^s  Dav,  the  date  when  such  chano^es  were  made. 
Having  received  no  intelligence  lately  from  her  home,  she 
asked  the  turnpike-keeper  the  news. 

"  O — nothing,  miss,"  he  answered.  "  Mario tt  is  Marlott 
still.  Folks  have  died,  and  that.  John  Durbeyfield,  too, 
hev  had  a  daughter  married  this  week  to  a  gentleman- 
farmer  ;  not  from  John's  own  house,  you  know ;  they  was 
married  elsewhere ;  the  gentleman  being  of  that  high 
standing  that  John's  own  folk  was  not  considered  well-be- 
doing  enough  to  have  any  part  in  it,  the  bridegroom  seem- 
ingly not  knowing  liow't  have  l)een  discovered  that  John 
is  a  old  and  ancient  nobleman  himself  l)y  blood,  with  family 


THE   WOMAN  PAYS.  291 

skellingtoiis  in  tlieii'  own  vaults  to  this  day,  but  done  out 
of  liis  pro23erty  in  the  time  o'  the  Romans.  However,  Sir 
John,  as  we  call  'n  now,  kept  up  the  wedding-day  as  well 
as  he  could,  and  stood  treat  to  everybody  in  the  parish ;  and 
John's  wife  sung  songs  at  The  Pure  Drop  till  past  eleven 
o'clock." 

Hearing  this,  Tess  felt  so  sick  at  heart  that  she  could  not 
decide  to  go  home  publicly  in  this  fly  with  her  luggage  and 
belongings.  She  asked  the  turnpike-keeper  if  she  might 
deposit  her  things  at  his  house  for  a  while,  and,  on  his 
offering  no  objection,  she  dismissed  her  carriage,  and  went 
on  to  the  village  alone  by  a  back  lane. 

At  sight  of  her  fathei^s  chimney  she  asked  herself  how 
she  coidd  possibly  enter  the  house?  Inside  that  cottage 
her  relations  were  calmly  supposing  her  far  away  on  a 
wedding  tour  mth  a  comparatively  rich  man,  who  was  to 
conduct  her  to  bouncing  prosperity  5  while  here  she  was, 
friendless,  creeping  up  to  the  old  door  quite  by  herself, 
with  no  better  place  to  go  to  in  the  world. 

She  did  not  reach  the  house  unobserved.  Just  by  the 
garden-hedge  she  was  met  by  a  girl  who  knew  her — one 
of  the  two  or  tlu^ee  with  whom  she  had  been  intimate  at 
school.  After  making  a  few  inquiries  as  to  how  Tess  came 
there,  her  friend,  unheeding  her  tragic  look,  interrupted 
with,  "But  where's  thy  gentleman,  Tess?" 

Tess  hastily  explained  that  he  had  been  called  away  on 
business,  and,  leaving  her  interlocutor,  clambered  over  the 
garden-hedge,  and  thus  made  her  way  to  the  house. 

As  she  went  up  the  garden-path  she  heard  her  mother 
singing  by  the  back  door,  coming  in  sight  of  which  she 
perceived  Mrs.  Durbej^eld  on  the  doorstep  in  the  act  of 
wringing  a  sheet.  Ha^dng  performed  this  mthout  observ- 
ing Tess,  she  went  indoors,  and  her  daughter  followed  her. 

The  washing-tub  stood  in  the  same  old  place  on  the  same 
old  quarter-hogshead,  and  her  mother,  having  thrown  the 
sheet  aside,  was  about  to  plunge  her  arms  in  anew. 


292  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"  Wliy — Tess ! — my  chil' — I  thouglit  you  was  going  to  be 
married — some  days  ago — really  and  truly  this  time — we 
sent  the  cider " 

''  YeSj  mother ;  so  I  am." 

"Going  to  be?" 

"  I  mean — I  am  married." 

"  Married  !     Then  where's  thy  husband ! " 

'^  0,  he's  gone  away  for  a  time." 

''  Gone  away  !  When  was  you  married,  then  ?  The  day 
vou  said  ? " 

"  Yes,  Tuesday,  mother." 

"And  now  'tis  on'y  Saturday,  and  he  gone  away?" 

"Yes;  he's  gone." 

"  What's  the  meaning  o'  that  ?  'Nation  seize  such  hus- 
bands as  you  seem  to  get,  say  I !  " 

"  Mother  !  " — Tess  went  across  to  Joan  Durbeyfield,  laid 
her  face  upon  the  matron's  bosom,  and  burst  into  sobs — 
"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  'ee,  mother !  You  said  to  me, 
and  wrote  to  me,  that  I  was  not  to  tell  him.  But  I  did  tell 
him — I  couldn't  help  it — and  he  went  away  !  " 

"  O  you  little  fool — 3^ou  little  fool !  "  burst  out  Mrs.  Dur- 
beyfield. "  My  good  God  !  that  ever  I  should  ha'  lived  to 
say  it,  but  I  say  it  again,  you  little  fool !  " 

Tess  was  con^-ulsed  with  weepmg,  the  tension  of  so  many 
days  having  relaxed  at  last.  "I  know  it — I  know — I 
know  !  "  she  gasped  through  her  sobs.  "  But,  O  my  mother, 
I  could  not  help  it ;  he  was  so  good^ — and  I  felt  the  wicked- 
ness of  trying  to  blind  him  as  to  what  had  happened !  If 
— ^if — it  were  to  be  done  again — I  should  do  the  same.  I 
could  not — I  dared  not — so  sin — against  him  !  " 

^'  But  you  sinned  enough  to  marry  him  first !  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  that's  where  my  misery  do  lie.  But  I  thought 
he  could  get  rid  of  me  by  law  if  he  were  determined  not  to 
overlook  it.  And  0,  if  you  knew — if  you  could  only  half 
know  how  I  loved  him — how  anxious  I  was  to  have  him — 
and  how  wrung  I  was  between  caring  so  much  for  him  and 


THE   WOMAN   PAYS.  293 

my  wish  to  be  fair  to  liim  ! ''  Tess  was  so  shaken  that  she 
could  get  no  fui^ther,  and  sunk  a  helpless  thing  into  a  chair. 

'*  Well,  well ;  what's  done  can't  be  undone  !  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  why  children  o'  my  bringing  forth  should  all  be 
bigger  simpletons  than  other  people's — not  to  know  better 
than  to  blab  such  a  thing  as  that,  when  he  couldn't  ha'  found 
it  out  till  too  late  !  "  Here  Mrs.  Durbeyfield  began  shed- 
ding tears  on  her  own  account  as  a  mother  to  be  pitied. 
^'  What  your  father  will  say  I  don't  know/'  she  continued ; 
"  for  he's  been  talking  about  the  wedding  up  at  Rolliver's 
and  The  Pure  Drop  every  day  since,  and  about  his  family 
getting  back  to  their  rightful  position  through  you — poor 
silly  man ! — and  now  you've  made  this  mess  of  it.  The 
Lord-a-Lord !  " 

As  if  to  bring  matters  to  a  focus,  Tess's  father  was  heard 
approaching  at  that  moment.  He  did  not,  however,  enter 
immediatelv,  and  Mrs.  Diu'bevfield  said  that  she  would 
break  the  bad  news  to  him  herself,  Tess  keeping  out  of 
sight  for  the  present.  Joan  began  to  take  the  mishap  as 
she  took  all  such  mishaps  after  her  first  burst  of  disap- 
pointment, as  she  had  taken  Tess's  original  trouble,  as  she 
would  have  taken  a  wet  holiday  or  a  failure  in  the  potato 
crop — as  a  thing  which  had  come  upon  them  irrespective 
of  will,  or  law,  or  desert,  or  folly  j  a  chance  external  im- 
pingement to  be  borne  mth ;  not  a  lesson. 

Tess  retreated  upstairs,  and  beheld  casually  that  the  beds 
had  been  shifted,  and  new  arrangements  made.  Her  old 
bed  had  been  adapted  for  two  younger  children.  There 
was  no  place  here  for  her  now. 

The  room  below  being  unceiled,  she  could  hear  most  of 
wliat  went  on  there.  Presently  her  father  entered,  appar- 
ently carrying  a  live  hen.  He  was  a  foot-higgler  now,  hav- 
ing been  obliged  to  sell  his  second  horse,  and  he  travelled 
with  his  basket  on  his  arm.  The  hen  had  been  carried  "wdth 
liim  this  morning  as  it  was  often  carried,  to  show  people 
that  he  was  in  his  work,  though  the  bird  had  reaUy  lain, 


294:  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

mth  its  legs  tied,  iinder  tlie  table  at  Rolliver^s  for  more 
than  an  hour. 

"  We've  just  had  up  a  story  about "  Dm-beyfield  be- 
gan, and  thereupon  related  in  detail  to  his  wife  a  discussion 
which  had  arisen  at  the  inn  about  the  clerg}^,  oiiginated 
by  the  fact  of  his  daughter  having  married  into  a  clerical 
family.  "They  was  formerly  styled  ^sir/  hke  my  own  an- 
cestry," he  said,  "though  nowadays  their  true  style,  strictly 
speaking,  is  'clerk'  onty."  As  Tess  had  wished  that  no 
great  publicity  should  be  given  to  the  event,  he  had  men- 
tioned no  particulars.  He  hoped  she  would  remove  that 
prohibition  soon.  He  proposed  that  the  couple  should  take 
Tess's  own  name,  D'Urber^dlle,  as  uncorrupted.  It  was  bet- 
ter than  her  husband's.  He  asked  if  any  letter  had  come 
from  her  that  day. 

Then  Mrs.  Durbe^^field  informed  him  that  no  letter  had 
come,  but  Tess  unfortunately  had  come  herself. 

When  at  length  the  collapse  was  explained  to  him  a  sul- 
len mortification,  not  usual  with  Durbeyfield,  overpowered 
the  effect  of  the  cheering  glass.  Yet  the  intrinsic  quality 
of  the  event  affected  his  touchy  sensitiveness  less  than  its 
conjectured  effect  upon  the  minds  of  others. 

"To  think,  now,  that  this  was  to  be  the  end  o't,"  said 
Sir  John.  "  And  I  with  a  familv  vault  under  that  there 
church  of  Kingsbere  as  big  as  Squire  JoUard's  ale-ceUar, 
and  my  follv  lying  there  in  sixes  and  sevens,  as  genuine 
county  bones  and  marrow  as  any  recorded  in  histor}^  And 
now  to  be  sure  what  thev  fellers  at  Rolliver's  and  The  Pure 
Drop  will  say  to  me ;  how  they'll  squint  and  glance,  and 
say,  'This  is  yer  mighty  grand  match  is  it;  this  is  yer 
getting  back  to  the  true  family  level  of  yer  forefathers  in 
King  Norman's  time ! '  I  feel  this  is  too  much,  Joan ;  I 
shall  put  an  end  to  myself,  title  and  all — I  can  bear  it  no 
longer !  .  .  .  But  she  can  make  him  keep  her  if  he's  mar- 
ried her  ? " 

"Why,  yes.     But  she  won't  think  o'  doing  that." 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  295 

"  D'ye  think  he  really  have  married  her.  Or  is  it  with 
him  as  mth  t'other  ? " 

Poor  Tess,  who  had  heard  as  far  as  this,  could  not  bear 
to  hear  more.  The  perception  that  her  word  could  be 
doubted  even  here,  in  her  own  parental  house,  set  her  mind 
against  the  spot  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  How 
unexpected  were  the  attacks  of  destiny !  And  if  her  father 
doubted  her  a  little,  would  not  neighbors  and  acquaintance 
doubt  her  much  f     O,  she  could  not  live  long  at  home  ! 

A  few  days,  accordingly,  were  all  that  she  allowed  her- 
self here,  at  the  end  of  which  time  she  received  a  short  note 
from  Clare,  informing  her  that  he  had  gone  to  the  North 
of  England  to  look  at  a  farm.  In  her  craving  for  the  dig- 
nity of  her  true  position  as  his  wife,  and  to  hide  from  her 
parents  the  vast  extent  of  the  division  between  them,  she 
made  use  of  this  letter  as  her  reason  for  again  departing, 
leaving  them  under  the  impression  that  she  was  setting  out 
to  join  him.  Still  fm'ther  to  screen  her  husband  from  any 
imi)utation  of  unkindness  to  her,  she  took  twenty-five  of 
the  fifty  pounds  Clare  had  given  her,  and  handed  the  sum 
over  to  her  mother,  as  if  the  wife  of  a  man  like  Angel  Clare 
could  well  afford  it,  saying  that  it  was  a  slight  retm^n  for 
the  trouble  and  humiliation  she  had  brought  upon  them  in 
years  past.  With  this  assertion  of  her  dignity  she  bade 
them  farewell ;  and  after  that  there  were  liveh^  doings  in 
the  Durbeyfield  household  for  some  time  on  the  strength 
of  Tess's  bounty,  her  mother  saying,  and  indeed  believing, 
that  the  quarrel  which  had  arisen  between  the  young  hus- 
band and  wife  had  adjusted  itself  under  their  strong  feeling 
that  they  could  not  live  ajDart  from  each  other. 


296  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 


XXXIX. 

It  was  three  weeks  after  the  marriage  that  Clare  found 
himself  descending  on  foot  the  hiil  wliich  led  to  the  well- 
known  parsonage  of  his  father.  With  his  downward  course 
the  square  tower  of  the  church  rose  into  the  still  evening 
sky  in  a  manner  of  inquiiy  as  to  why  he  had  come  ;  and  no 
li^dng  person  in  the  twihghted  town  seemed  to  notice  him, 
still  less  to  expect  him.  He  w^as  arriving  hke  a  ghost,  and 
the  sound  of  his  OT\m  footsteps  was  almost  an  encumbrance 
to  be  got  rid  of. 

The  picture  of  life  had  changed  for  Clare.  Before  this 
time  he  had  known  it  speculatively  only ;  now  he  thought 
he  knew  it  as  a  practical  man  ;  though  perhaps  he  did  not, 
even  yet.  Nevertheless,  humanity  stood  before  him  no 
longer  in  the  pensive  sweetness  of  Italian  art,  but  in  the 
staring  and  ghastly  attitudes  of  a  Wiertz  Museum,  and 
with  the  hideous  leer  of  a  Yan  Beers. 

His  conduct  during  these  first  weeks  had  been  desultory 
beyond  description.  After  mechanically  attempting  to 
pursue  his  agricultural  plans  as  though  nothing  unusual 
had  happened,  in  the  manner  recommended  by  the  great 
and  wdse  men  of  all  ages,  he  concluded  that  very  few  of 
those  great  and  Avise  men  had  ever  gone  so  far  outside 
themselves  as  to  test  the  feasibility  of  their  counsel.  "  This 
is  the  chief  thing :  be  not  perturbed,"  said  the  Pagan  mor- 
alist. That  was  just  Clare's  owm  opinion.  But  he  was 
perturbed.  "  Let  not  youi'  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it 
be  afraid,"  said  the  Nazarene.  Clare  chimed  in  cordially ; 
but  his  heart  was  troubled  all  the  same.  How  he  would 
have  liked  to  confront  those  two  great  thinkers,  and  ear- 
nestly appeal  to  them  as  fellow-man  to  fellow-men,  and  ask 
them  to  tell  him  their  method ! 


THE   W03L\N   PAYS.  097 

His  mood  transmuted  itself  into  a  dogged  indifference 
till  at  length  he  fancied  he  was  looking  on  his  own  existence 
wdth  the  passive  interest  of  an  outsider. 

He  was  embittered  by  the  conviction  that  all  this  desola- 
tion had  been  brought  about  by  the  accident  of  her  being 
a  D'Urberville.  When  he  found  that  Tess  came  of  that 
exhausted  ancient  Une,  and  was  not  of  the  new  tribes  from 
below,  as  he  had  fondly  dreamed,  why  had  he  not  stoically 
abandoned  her,  in  fidelity  to  his  principles?  This  was 
what  he  had  got  b}^  apostas}^,  and  his  punishment  was  de- 
served. 

Then  he  became  weary  and  anxious,  and  his  anxiety  in- 
creased. He  wondered  if  he  had  treated  her  unfairly.  He 
ate  without  knowing  that  he  ate,  and  drank  without  tasting. 
As  the  houi's  dropped  past,  as  the  motive  of  each  act  in  the 
long  series  of  bygone  days  presented  itself  to  his  view,  he 
perceived  how^  intimately  the  notion  of  having  Tess  as  a 
dear  possession  was  mixed  up  with  all  schemes,  and  words, 
and  ways. 

In  going  hither  and  thither  he  observed  in  the  outskirts 
of  a  small  town  a  red-and-blue  placard  setting  forth  the 
great  advantages  of  the  Empire  of  Brazil  as  a  field  for  the 
emigrating  agrieultuiist.  Land  was  offered  there  on  ex- 
ceptionally advantageous  terms.  Brazil  somewhat  attracted 
him  as  a  new  idea.  Tess  could  eventually  join  him  there, 
and  perhaps  in  that  country  of  contrasting  scenes,  and 
notions,  and  habits,  the  conventions  would  not  be  so  opera- 
tive wliich  made  hfe  with  her  seem  impracticable  to  him 
here.  In  l)rief,  he  was  strongty  inclined  to  try  Brazil,  espe- 
cially as  the  season  for  going  thither  was  just  at  hand. 

With  this  view  he  was  returning  to  Eniminster  to  disclose 
his  plan  to  his  parents,  and  to  make  the  best  explanation 
he  could  make  of  arriving  without  Tess  short  of  revealing 
what  had  actually  separated  them.  As  he  reached  the  door 
the  new  moon  shone  upon  his  face,  just  as  the  old  one  had 
done  in  the  small  hours  of  that  morning  when  he  had  car- 


298  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERAaLLES. 

ried  liis  wife  in  his  arms  across  the  river  to  the  graveyard 
of  the  monks ;  bnt  his  face  was  thinner  now. 

Clare  had  given  his  parents  no  warning  of  his  visit,  and 
his  arrival  stirred  the  atmosphere  of  the  vicarage  as  the 
dive  of  the  kingfisher  stirs  a  quiet  pool.  His  father  and 
mother  were  both  in  the  drawing-room,  but  neither  of  his 
brothers  was  now  at  home.  Angel  entered,  and  closed  the 
door  quietly  behind  him. 

"  But — where's  jonr  wife,  dear  Angel  ? "  cried  his  mother. 
"  How  5^ou  surprise  us  !  " 

^'  She  is  at  her  mothei^'s — temporarily.  I  have  come  home 
rather  in  a  hurry  because  I've  decided  to  go  to  Brazil." 

"  Brazil !     Wliy,  they  are  all  Catholics  there,  surely !  " 

"  Are  they  ?     I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

But  even  the  novelty  and  painfulness  of  his  going,  par- 
ticularly to  a  Papistical  land,  could  not  displace  for  long 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clare's  natural  interest  in  their  son's  marriage. 

"  We  had  your  brief  note  three  weeks  ago  announcing 
that  it  had  taken  place,"  said  Mrs.  Clare,  "  and  your  father 
sent  your  godmother's  gift  to  her,  as  you  know.  Of  course 
it  was  best  that  none  of  us  should  be  present,  especially  as 
you  preferred  to  marry  her  from  the  dairy,  and  not  at  her 
home,  wherever  that  may  be.  It  would  have  embarrassed 
you,  and  given  us  no  pleasui'e.  Your  brothers  felt  that 
very  strongly.  Of  course,  now  it  is  done  we  do  not  com- 
plain, particularly  if  she  suits  you  for  the  business  you 
have  chosen  to  follow  instead  of  the  ministry  of  the  Gos- 
pel. .  .  .  Yet  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  her  first,  Angel,  or 
have  known  a  little  more  about  her.  We  sent  her  no  pres- 
ent of  our  own,  not  knowing  what  would  best  give  her 
pleasure,  but  you  must  supjDOse  it  only  delayed.  Angel, 
there  is  no  irritation  in  my  mind  or  your  father's  against 
you  for  this  marriage ;  but  we  have  thought  it  much  better 
to  reserve  our  liking  for  your  wife  till  we  could  see  her. 
And  now  you  have  not  brought  her.  It  seems  strange. 
What  has  ha|)})ened  ? " 

He  replied  that  it  had  been  thought  best  by  them  that 


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THE  WOI\IAN  PAYS.  299 

she  should  go  to  lier  pai'ents'  home  for  the  present,  whilst 
he  came  there. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  dear  mother/'  he  said,  "  that 
I  always  meant  to  keep  her  away  from  this  house  till  I 
should  feel  she  could  come  with  credit  to  you.  But  this 
idea  of  Brazil  is  quite  a  recent  one.  If  I  do  go  it  wiU  be 
unadvisable  for  me  to  take  her  on  this  my  first  journey. 
She  ^\dll  remain  at  her  mother's  till  I  come  back." 

"And  I  shall  not  see  her  before  you  start?" 

He  was  afraid  they  would  not.  His  original  plan  had 
been,  as  he  had  said,  to  refrain  from  bringing  her  there  for 
some  little  while — not  to  wound  their  prejudices — feelings 
— in  any  way ;  and  for  other  reasons  he  had  adhered  to  it. 
He  would  have  to  visit  home  in  the  course  of  a  vear,  if  he 
went  out  at  once ;  and  it  would  be  possible  for  them  to  see 
her  before  he  started  a  second  time — with  her. 

A  hastily  prepared  supper  was  brought  in,  and  Clare 
gave  further  explanation  of  his  plans.  His  mother's  dis- 
appointment at  not  seeing  the  bride  still  remained  with 
her.  Clare's  late  enthusiasm  for  Tess  had  infected  her 
through  her  maternal  sympathies,  till  she  had  almost  fan- 
cied that  a  good  thing  could  come  out  of  Nazareth — a 
charming  woman  out  of  Talbothays  Dairy.  She  watched 
her  son  as  he  ate. 

"  Cannot  you  describe  her  f  I  am  sui*e  she  is  very  pretty. 
Angel." 

"  Of  that  there  can  be  no  question  !  "  said  he,  with  a  zest 
which  covered  its  bitterness. 

"  And  that  she  is  pure  and  virtuous  goes  without  ques- 
tion?" 

"  Pure  and  vii'tuous,  of  coiu'se,  she  is." 

"  I  can  see  her  quite  distinctly.  You  said  the  other  day 
that  she  was  fine  in  figure ;  roundty  built ;  had  deep  red 
lips  like  Cupid's  bow ;  dark  eyelashes  and  brows,  an  im- 
mense rope  of  hair  like  a  ship's  cable ;  and  large  eyes  vio- 
^  lety-bluey-blackish." 

"I  did,  mother." 


300  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

^'  I  quite  see  her.  And  Imng  in  such  seclusion  she  natu- 
rally had  scarce  ever  seen  any  young  man  from  the  world 
without  till  she  saw  you." 

"  Scarcely." 

''  You  were  her  first  love  1 " 

'^Yes." 

^'  There  are  worse  wives  than  these  simple,  rosy-moutlied, 
robust  girls  of  the  farm.  Certainly  I  could  have  wished — 
well,  since  my  son  is  to  be  an  agiiculturist,  it  is  perhaps 
but  proper  that  his  wife  should  have  been  accustomed  to 
an  outdoor  life." 

His  father  was  less  inquisitive ;  but  when  the  time  came 
for  the  chapter  from  the  Bible  which  was  always  read  be- 
fore evening  prayers,  the  \dcar  observed  to  Mrs.  Clare,  "  I 
think,  since  Angel  has  come,  that  it  will  be  more  appropri- 
ate to  read  the  thirty-first  of  Proverbs  than  the  chapter 
which  we  should  have  had  in  the  usual  course  of  our  read- 
ing?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Mrs  Clare.  ''  The  words  of  King 
Lemuel "  (she  could  cite  chapter  and  verse  as  w^ell  as  her 
husband).  "  My  dear  son,  your  father  has  decided  to  read 
us  the  chapter  in  Proverl^s  in  praise  of  a  virtuous  wife. 
We  shall  not  need  to  be  reminded  to  apply  the  words  to 
the  absent  one.     Maj^  Heaven  shield  her  in  all  her  ways  !  " 

A  lump  rose  in  Clare's  throat.  The  domestic  lectern  was 
taken  out  from  the  corner  and  set  in  the  middle  of  the  fii^e- 
place,  the  Bible  opened  upon  it ;  the  two  old  servants  came 
in,  and  Angel's  father  began  to  read  at  the  tenth  verse  of 
the  aforesaid  chapter : 

"  '■  Wlio  can  find  a  virtuous  woman  ?  for  her  price  is  far 
above  rul^ies.  She  riseth  while  it  is  yet  night,  and  giveth 
meat  to  her  household.  She  girdeth  her  loins  with  strength, 
and  strengtheneth  her  arms.  She  perceiveth  that  her  mer- 
chandise is  good ;  her  candle  goeth  not  out  by  night.  She 
looketh  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household,  and  eateth  not 
the  bread  of  idleness.     Her  children  arise  up  and  call  her 


THE   W03L\N   PAYS.  301 

blessed ;  lier  Imsbaud  also,  and  lie  praiseth  her.  Many 
daughters  have  done  virtuously,  but  thou  exeellest  them 
aU.' " 

When  prayers  were  over,  his  mother  said :  ''  I  could  not 
help  thinking  how  very  aptly  that  chapter  your  dear  father 
read  applied,  in  some  of  its  particulars,  to  the  woman  you 
have  chosen.  The  perfect  woman,  you  see,  was  a  working 
woman ;  not  an  idler,  not  a  fine  lady,  but  one  who  used 
her  hands  and  her  head  and  her  heart  for  the  good  of 
others.  'Her  children  arise  up  and  call  her  blessed;  her 
husband  also,  and  he  praiseth  her.  Many  daughters  have 
done  virtuouslv,  but  she  excelleth  them  all.'  Well,  I  wish 
I  could  have  seen  her.  Angel.  Since  she  is  pm-e  and  chaste 
she  would  have  been  refined  enough  for  me." 

Clare  could  bear  this  no  longer.  His  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  which  seemed  like  drops  of  molten  lead.  He  bade  a 
quick  good-night  to  these  sincere  and  simple  souls  whom 
he  loved  so  well ;  who  knew  neither  the  world,  the  flesh, 
nor  the  devil  in  their  own  hearts ;  only  as  something  vague 
and  external  to  themselves.     He  went  to  his  own  chamber. 

His  mother  followed  him,  and  tapped  at  his  door.  Clare 
opened  it  to  discover  her  standing  without,  with  anxious  eyes. 

"  Angel,"  she  asked,  ''  is  there  something  wrong  that  you 
go  away  so  soon  ?     I  am  quite  sure  you  are  not  yourself." 

"  I  am  not  quite,  mother,"  said  he. 

^'  About  her  ?  Now,  my  son,  I  know^  it  is  that — I  know 
it  is  about  her.    Have  you  quarrelled  in  these  three  weeks  ? " 

"We  have  not  exactly  quarrelled,"  he  said.  "But  we 
have  had  a  difference " 

"  Angel — ^is  she  a  young  woman  whose  history  will  bear 
investigation?"  With  a  mother's  instinct  Mrs.  Clare  had 
put  her  finger  on  the  kind  of  trouble  that  would  cause  such 
a  disquiet  as  seemed  to  agitate  her  son. 

"  She  is  spotless  !  "  he  replied,  and  felt  that  if  it  had  sent 
him  to  eternal  hell  there  and  then  he  would  have  told  that 
lie. 


302  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"Then  never  mind  the  rest.  After  all,  there  are  few 
sweeter  things  in  nature  than  an  unsullied  country  maid. 
Any  crudeness  of  manner  which  may  offend  youi'  more 
educated  sense  at  first  wiJl,  I  am  sure,  disappear  under  the 
influence  of  your  companionship  and  tuition/' 

Such  terrible  sarcasm  of  blind  magnanimity  brought 
home  to  Clare  the  gloomy  perception  that  he  had  utterly 
wrecked  his  career  by  this  marriage,  which  had  not  been 
among  his  early  thoughts  after  the  disclosure.  True,  on 
his  own  account  he  cared  very  little  about  his  career ;  but 
he  had  wished  to  make  it  at  least  a  resjDCctable  one  on  ac- 
count of  his  parents  and  brothers.  And  now,  as  he  looked 
into  the  candle,  its  flame  dumbly  expressed  to  hmi  that  it 
was  made  to  shine  on  sensible  people,  and  that  it  abhorred 
lighting  the  face  of  a  dupe  and  a  failure. 

When  his  agitation  had  cooled,  he  would  be  at  moments 
incensed  with  his  poor  wife  for  causing  a  situation  in  which 
he  was  obliged  to  practise  deception  on  his  parents.  He 
almost  talked  to  her  in  his  anger,  as  if  she  had  been  in  the 
room.  And  then  her  cooing  voice,  plaintive  in  expostula- 
tion, disturbed  the  darkness,  the  velvet  touch  of  her  lips 
passed  over  his  brow,  and  he  could  distinguish  in  the  air 
the  warmth  of  her  breath. 

This  night  the  woman  of  his  belitthng  deprecations  was 
thinking  how  great  and  good  her  husband  was.  Wliile 
over  them  both  there  hung  a  deeper  shade  than  the  shade 
which  Angel  Clare  perceived,  namely,  the  shade  of  his 
own  limitations.  With  all  his  attempted  independence  of 
judgment,  this  advanced  and  well-meaning  young  man — a 
sample  product  of  the  last  five-and-twenty  years — was  yet 
the  slave  to  custom  and  conventionality  when  surprised 
back  into  his  early  teachings.  No  prophet  had  told  him, 
and  he  was  not  proj^het  enough  to  tell  himself,  that  essen- 
tially this  young  wife  of  his  was  as  deserving  of  the  praise 
of  King  Lemuel  as  any  other  woman  endowed  with  the 
same  dislike  of  evil,  her  moral  value  having  to  be  reckoned 


THE   WOIMAN   PAYS.  303 

not  by  acliievement  but  by  tendency.  Moreover,  tlie  figure 
near  at  hand  suffers  on  such  occasions,  because  it  shows  up 
its  sorriness  without  shade ;  while  vague  figures  afar  off 
are  honored,  in  that  theii-  distance  makes  artistic  virtues 
of  their  stains.  In  considering  what  Tess  was  not,  he  over- 
looked what  she  was,  and  forgot  that  the  deficient  can  be 
more  than  the  entire. 


XL. 

At  breakfast  Brazil  was  the  topic,  and  all  endeavored  to 
take  a  hopeful  view  of  Clare's  proposed  experiment  with  that 
country's  soil,  notwithstanding  the  discouraging  reports  of 
some  farm-laborers  who  had  emigi'ated  thither  and  returned 
home  within  the  twelve  months.  After  breakfast  Clare 
went  into  the  little  town  to  wind  up  such  trifling  matters 
as  he  was  concerned  with  there,  and  to  get  from  the  local 
bank  all  the  money  he  possessed.  On  his  way  back  he 
encountered  Miss  Mercy  Chant  by  the  church,  from  whose 
walls  she  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  emanation.  She  was  carry- 
ing an  armful  of  Bibles  for  her  class,  and  such  was  her 
view  of  life  that  events  which  produced  heartache  in  others 
wi'ought  beatific  smiles  upon  her — an  enviable  result,  al- 
though, in  the  opinion  of  Angel  Clare,  it  was  obtained  by 
a  curiously  unnatural  sacrifice  of  humanity  to  mysticism. 

She  had  learnt  that  he  was  about  to  leave  England,  and 
observed  what  an  excellent  and  promising  scheme  it  seemed 
to  be. 

"Yes;  it  is  a  hkely  scheme  enough  in  a  commercial 
sense,  no  doubt,"  he  replied.  "But,  my  dear  Mercy,  it 
snaps  the  continuity  of  existence.  Perhaps  a  cloister  would 
be  preferable." 

"  A  cloister !     0  Angel  Clare ! " 


304  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"Why,  you  wdcked  man,  a  cloister  implies  a  monk,  and 
a  monk  Catholicism  !  " 

"And  Catholicism  sin,  and  sin  damnation.  Thou  art  in 
a  parlous  state,  Angel  Clare  !  " 

"  I  glory  in  my  Protestantism,''  said  she,  severely. 

Then  Clare,  thrown  by  sheer  misery  into  one  of  the  de- 
moniacal moods  in  which  a  man  does  despite  to  his  true 
principles,  called  her  close  to  him,  and  fiendishly  whispered 
in  her  ear  the  most  heterodox  ideas  he  could  think  of.  His 
momentary  laughter  at  the  horror  which  appeared  on  her 
fail*  face  ceased  when  it  merged  in  pain  and  anxiety  for  his 
welfare.  "Dear  Mercy,"  he  said,  "you  must  forgive  me. 
I  think  I  am  going  crazy  !  " 

She  thought  that  he  was ;  and  thus  the  interview  ended, 
and  Clare  re-entered  the  ^dcarage.  With  the  local  banker 
he  deposited  the  jewels  till  happier  days  should  arise.  He 
also  paid  into  the  bank  thirty  pounds — to  be  sent  to  Tess 
in  a  few  months,  as  she  might  require  ;  and  ^^Tote  to  her  at 
her  parents'  home  in  Blackmoor  Vale  to  inform  her  of 
what  he  had  done.  This  amount,  with  the  sum  he  had  al- 
ready placed  in  her  hands — about  fifty  pounds — he  hoped 
would  be  amply  sufficient  for  her  wants  just  at  present, 
particulai'ly  as  in  an  emergency  she  had  been  du'ected  to 
apply  to  his  father. 

He  deemed  it  best  not  to  put  his  parents  into  communi- 
cation with  her  by  informing  them  of  her  address ;  and, 
being  unaware  of  what  had  really  happened  to  estrange 
the  two,  neither  his  father  nor  his  mother  suggested  that 
he  should  do  so.  During  the  day  he  left  the  parsonage, 
for  what  he  had  to  complete  he  wished  to  get  done  quickly. 

As  the  last  duty  before  leaving  this  part  of  England  it 
was  necessary  for  liim  to  call  at  the  Weill  bridge  farmhouse, 
in  which  lie  luid  spent  with  Tess  the  first  three  days  of 
their  marriage,  the  trifle  of  rent  having  to  be  paid,  the  key 
given  up  of  the  rooms  they  had  occupied,  and  two  or  three 


THE   WO:\IAN   PAYS.  30-5 

small  articles  fetched  away  that  they  had  left  behind.  It 
was  under  this  roof  that  the  deepest  shadow  ever  thrown 
upon  his  hf  e  had  stretched  its  gloom  over  him.  Yet  when  he 
had  unlocked  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  and  looked  into 
it,  the  memory  wliich  returned  first  upon  him  was  that  of 
their  happy  arrival  on  a  similar  afternoon,  the  fii'st  fresh 
sense  of  sharing  a  habitation  conjointly,  the  fu*st  meal  to- 
gether, the  chatting  by  the  fire  with  joined  hands. 

The  farmer  and  his  wile  were  in  the  fields  at  the  moment 
of  his  visit,  and  Clare  was  in  the  rooms  alone  for  some  time. 
Inwardly  swollen  with  a  renewal  of  sentiments  that  he  had 
not  quite  reckoned  with,  he  went  upstairs  to  her  chamber, 
which  had  never  been  his.  The  bed  was  smooth  as  she 
had  made  it  ^Yith  her  own  hands  on  the  morning  of  lea\dng. 

The  mistletoe  hung  under  the  tester  just  as  he  had  placed 
it.  Ha\dng  been  there  three  or  four  weeks,  it  was  turning 
color,  and  the  leaves  and  berries  were  wi^nkled.  Angel 
took  it  down  and  crushed  it  into  the  grate.  Standing 
there,  he  for  the  first  time  doubted  whether  his  course  in  this 
conjunctm'e  had  been  a  mse,  much  less  a  generous,  one.  But 
had  he  not  been  cruellv  blinded  ?  In  the  incoherent  multi- 
tude  of  his  emotions  he  knelt  down  at  the  bedside  wet-eyed. 
"  O  Tess  !  If  vou  had  onlv  told  me  sooner,  I  would  have 
forgiven  you  !  "  he  mourned. 

Hearing  a  footstep  below,  he  rose  and  went  to  the  top  of 
the  stairs.  At  the  bottom  of  the  flight  he  saw  a  woman 
standing,  and  on  her  turning  up  her  face  recognized  the 
pale,  dark-eyed  Izz  Huett. 

"Mr.  Clare,^'  said  she,  "I've  called  to  see  you  and  Mrs. 
Clare,  and  to  inquire  if  ye  be  well.  I  thought  you  would 
be  back." 

This  was  a  girl  whose  secret  he  had  guessed,  but  who 
had  not  yet  guessed  his ;  an  honest  girl  who  loved  him — 
one  who  would  have  made  as  good,  or  nearly  as  good,  a 
practical  farmer's  wife  as  Tess. 

"I  am  here  alone,"  he  said;    "we  are  not  hving  hei'e 

20 


306  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

now."  Ex2:)laiiniig  why  he  had  come,  he  asked,  "Which 
way  are  you  going  home,  Izz  ? " 

"  I  have  no  home  at  Talbothays  Daiiy  now,  su',"  she  said. 

^'Whyis  that?" 

Izz  looked  down.  "  It  was  so  dismal  there  that  I  left. 
I  am  staying  out  this  way."'  She  pointed  in  a  contrary 
direction — the  dii'ection  in  which  he  was  journeying. 

'^  Well — are  you  going  there  now?  I  can  take  j^ou  if  you 
wish  for  a  lift." 

Her  olive  com]3lexion  grew  richer  in  hue.  "  Thank  'ee, 
Mr.  Clare,"  she  said. 

He  soon  found  the  farmer,  and  settled  the  account  for 
his  rent  and  the  few  other  items  which  had  to  be  considered 
by  reason  of  the  sudden  abandonment  of  the  lodgings.  On 
Clare's  return  to  his  horse  and  gig  Izz  jumped  up  beside 
him. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  England,  Izz,"  he  said,  as  they  drove 
on.     "  Going  to  Brazil." 

"And  do  Mrs.  Clare  like  the  notion  of  such  a  jom-ney f " 
she  asked. 

"  She  is  not  going  at  present — say  for  a  year  or  so.  I  am 
going  out  to  reconnoitre — to  see  what  life  there  is  hke." 

They  sped  along  eastward  for  some  considerable  distance, 
Izz  making  no  observation.  "How  are  the  others?"  he  in- 
quired.    "  How  is  Retty  ? " 

"  She  is  in  a  sort  of  nervous  state ;  and  so  thin  and  hol- 
low-cheeked that  'a  do  seem  in  a  decline.  Nobody  wUl  ever 
fall  in  love  wi'  her  any  more,"  said  Izz,  absently. 

"  And  Marian  ? " 

Izz  lowered  her  voice.     "  Marian  di'inks." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes.     The  dairyman  has  got  rid  of  her." 

"And  you?" 

"  I  don't  drink,  and  I  baiiit  in  a  decline.  But — I  am  no 
gi^eat  things  at  singing  afore  breakfast  now !  " 

"  How  is  that !    Do  you  remember  how  neatly  you  used 


THE   WO:\L\N   PAYS.  307 

to  turn  ^'Twas  down  in  Cupid's  Gardens'  and  ^Tlie  Tailor's 
Breeches'  at  moruing  milking?" 

^^  Ah  yes !  When  you  first  came,  sii",  that  was.  Not 
when  you  had  been  there  a  bit." 

''  Why  was  that  f aUing-off  1 " 

Her  black  eyes  flashed  up  to  his  face  for  one  moment  by 
w^ay  of  answer. 

''  Izz — how  weak  of  you — for  such  as  I ! ''  he  said,  and  fell 
into  reverie.  "  Then — suppose  I  had  asked  you  to  marry 
me  I " 

"If  you  had  I  should  have  said  ^Yes/  and  you  would 
have  married  a  woman  who  loved  'ee." 

"  ReaUv ! " 

"  Down  to  the  ground  !  "  she  whispered.  "  0  my  God  ! 
did  you  never  guess  it  till  now  !  " 

By  and  by  they  reached  a  branch  road  to  the  \allage. 
"  I  must  get  down.  I  live  out  there,"  said  Izz,  abruptly, 
never  having  spoken  since  her  avowal. 

Clare  slowed  the  horse.  He  was  incensed  against  his 
fate,  bitterly  disposed  towards  social  ordinances ;  for  they 
had  cooped  him  up  in  a  corner,  out  of  which  there  was  no 
legitimate  pathway.  Why  not  be  revenged  on  society  by 
ruling  his  future  domesticities  himself,  instead  of  kissing 
the  pedagogic  rod  of  convention  in  this  lonely  manner  ? 

"I  am  going  to  Brazil  alone,  Izz,"  said  he.  "I  have 
separated  from  my  wife  for  personal,  not  voj^aging,  reasons. 
I  may  never  live  with  her  again.  I  may  not  be  able  to  love 
you ;  but — will  you  go  mth  me  instead  of  her  f " 

"Do  you  truly  msh  me  to  go ? " 

"  I  do.  I  have  been  badly  used  enough  to  wish  for  re- 
hef .     And  you  at  least  love  me  disinterestedly." 

"  Yes — I  will  go,"  said  Izz,  after  a  pause. 

"  You  will  ?    You  know  what  it  means,  Izz  ? " 

"  It  means  that  I  shall  live  with  you  for  the  time  you  are 
over  there — that's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Remember,  you  are  not  to  trust  me  in  morals  now. 


308  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

But  I  ought  to  remind  you  that  it  will  be  wi'ong-doing  in 
the  eyes  of  civilization — Western  ci\alization,  that  is  to 
say." 

'^I  don't  mind  that;  no  woman  do  when  it  comes  to 
agony-point,  and  there's  no  other  way." 

"  Then  don't  get  down,  but  sit  where  you  are." 

He  di^ove  past  the  cross-roads,  one  mile,  two  miles,  with- 
out showing  any  signs  of  affection. 

"  You  love  me  very,  very  much,  Izz  ? "  he  suddenh^  asked. 

"  I  do — I  have  said  I  do.  I  loved  you  all  the  time  we 
was  at  the  dauy  together." 

"More  than  Tessf" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  mm'mured,  "  not  more  than  she." 

"  How's  that  ? " 

"  Because  nobody  could  love  'ee  more  than  Tess  did ! 
.  .  .  She  would  have  laid  down  her  life  for  'ee.  I  could  do 
no  more !  " 

Like  the  prophet  on  the  top  of  Peor,  Izz  Huett  would  fain 
have  spoken  perversely  at  such  a  moment,  but  the  fascina- 
tion exercised  over  her  rougher  nature  by  Tess's  character 
compelled  her  to  grace.  • 

Clare  was  silent;  his  heart  had  risen  at  these  straight- 
forward words  from  such  an  unexpected,  unimpeachable 
quarter.  In  his  throat  was  something  as  if  a  sob  had  solidi- 
fied there.  His  ears  repeated,  "  She  would  have  laid  down 
her  life  for  ^ee.    I  could  do  no  more  ! " 

"Forget  our  idle  talk,  Izz,"  he  said,  turning  his  horse's 
head  suddenlv.  "I  don't  know  what  I've  been  savin  i>!  I 
will  now  drive  you  back  to  where  your  lane  branches  off." 

"  So  much  for  honesty  towards  'ee  !  0 — how  can  I  bear 
it — how  can  I — how  can  If"  Izz  Huett  burst  into  wild 
tears,  and  beat  her  forehead  as  she  saw  what  she  had  done. 

"  Do  you  regret  that  poor  little  act  of  justice  to  an  ab- 
sent one  ?     0  Izz,  don't  spoil  it  by  regret !  " 

She  stilled  herself  by  degrees. 


THE  WOIMAN  PAYS.  309 

'^  Very  well,  sir.  Perliaps  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  say- 
ing either,  when  I  agreed  to  go.    I  msh — what  cannot  be." 

'^  Because  I  have  a  loving  wife  already." 

"  Yes,  yes  !     You  have." 

They  reached  the  corner  of  the  lane  which  they  had 
passed  half  an  hour  earlier,  and  she  hopped  down. 

"You  vnR  forget  my  momentary  levity?"  he  said.  "It 
was  ill-considered,  ill-advised." 

"  Forget  it  ?    Never,  never !     O,  it  was  no  levity  to  me  !  " 

He  felt  how  richly  he  deserved  the  reproach  that  the 
wounded  cry  conveyed,  and,  in  a  sorrow  that  was  inexpres- 
sible, leaped  doT\Ti  and  took  her  hand.  "Well,  but,  Izz, 
we'll  part  friends,  anyhow?  You  don't  know  what  I've 
had  to  bear !  " 

She  was  a  really  generous  gii'l,  and  allowed  no  further 
bitterness  to  mar  their  adieux.     "  I  forgive  'ee,  sir,"  she  said. 

"  Now,  Izz,"  he  said,  solemnly,  while  she  stood  beside  him 
there,  forcing  liiraseK  to  the  mentor's  part  he  was  far  from 
feeling 5  "I  want  you  to  tell  Marian  when  you  see  her  that 
she  is  to  be  a  good  woman,  and  not  to  give  way  to  folly. 
Promise  that,  and  tell  Retty  that  there  are  more  worthy 
men  than  I  in  the  world,  that  for  mv  sake  she  is  to  act 
wisely  and  well — remember  the  words — wisely  and  well — 
for  my  sake.  I  send  this  message  to  them  as  a  dying  man 
to  the  dying ;  for  I  shall  never  see  them  again.  And  you, 
Izz}^,  3'ou  have  saved  me  by  your  honest  words  about  my 
wife  from  an  incredible  piece  of  folly  and  treachery.  Wom- 
en may  be  bad,  but  they  are  not  so  bad  as  men  in  these 
things.  On  that  one  account  I  can  never  forget  you.  Be 
always  the  good  and  sincere  girl  you  have  hitherto  been ; 
and  think  of  me  as  a  worthless  lover,  but  a  faithful  friend. 
Promise." 

She  gave  the  promise  gravely.  "  Heaven  bless  and  keep 
you,  sir.     Good-by  !  " 

He  drove  on;  but  no  sooner  had  Izz  turned  into  the 
lane,  and  Clare  was  out  of  sight,  than  she  flung  herself 


310  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

down  ou  tlie  bank  in  a  fit  of  racking  anguish ;  and  it  was 
with  a  strained,  nnnatiu*al  face  that  she  entered  her  mother's 
cottage  late  that  night.  Nobody  ever  knew  how  Izz  spent 
the  dark  houi's  that  intervened  between  Angel  Clare's  part- 
ing from  her  and  her  arrival  home. 

Clare,  too,  after  bidding  the  girl  farewell,  was  wrought 
to  aching  thoughts  and  quivering  lips.  But  his  sorrow  was 
not  for  Izz.  That  evening  he  was  within  a  feather-weight's 
turn  of  abandoning  his  road  to  the  nearest  station,  and 
driving  across  that  elevated  dorsal  line  of  South  Wessex 
which  divided  him  from  his  Tess's  home.  It  was  neither  a 
contempt  for  her  nature,  nor  the  probable  state  of  her  heart, 
which  deterred  him. 

No ;  it  was  a  sense  that,  despite  her  love,  as  corroborated 
by  Izz's  admission,  the  facts  had  not  changed.  If  he  was 
right  at  first,  he  was  right  now.  And  the  momentum  of 
the  course  on  which  he  had  embarked  tended  to  keep  him 
going  in  it,  unless  diverted  by  a  stronger,  more  sustained 
force  than  had  played  upon  him  this  afternoon.  He  could 
soon  come  back  to  her.  He  took  the  train  that  night  for 
London,  and  five  days  after  shook  hands  in  fareweU  of  his 
brothers  at  the  port  of  embarkation. 


XLI. 

i*ROM  the  foregoing  events  of  the  mnter-time  let  us  press 
on  to  an  October  da}",  more  than  eight  months  subsequent 
to  the  parting  of  Clare  and  Tess.  We  discover  the  latter 
in  changed  conditions  ]  instead  of  a  bride  with  boxes  and 
trunks  which  others  bore,  we  see  her  a  lonely  woman  with  a 
basket  and  a  bundle  in  her  own  porterage,  as  at  an  earlier 
time,  when  she  was  no  bride ;  instead  of  the  ample  means 
tliat   were  anticipated   by  her  husband   for  her  comfort 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  311 

througli  tliis  probationary  period,  she  can  produce  only  a 
flattened  purse. 

After  again  leading  Marlott,  lier  liome,  sheliad  got  through 
the  spring  and  summer  without  au}^  great  stress  upon  her 
physical  powers,  the  time  being  mainly  spent  in  rendering 
light,  ii'regular  ser\dce  at  dairy- work  near  Port  Bredy,  to 
the  west  of  the  Blackmoor  Valley,  equally  remote  from  her 
native  place  and  from  Tall.)othays.  She  preferred  this  to  liv- 
ing on  his  allowance.  Mentally  she  remained  in  utter  stag- 
nation, a  condition  which  the  mechanical  occupation  rather 
fostered  than  checked.  Her  consciousness  was  at  that 
other  daily,  at  that  other  season,  in  the  presence  of  the 
tender  lover  who  had  confronted  her  there — he  who,  the 
moment  she  had  grasped  him  to  keep  him  for  her  own,  had 
disappeared  like  a  shape  in  a  \dsion. 

The  dairy- work  lasted  only  till  the  milk  began  to  lessen, 
for  she  had  not  met  with  a  second  regular  engagement  as 
at  Talbothays,  but  had  done  duty  as  a  supernumerary  only. 
However,  as  harvest  was  now  beginning,  she  had  simply 
to  remove  from  the  pastiu'e  to  the  stubble  to  find  plenty  of 
further  occupation,  and  this  continued  till  harvest  was  done. 

Of  the  five-and-twenty  pounds  which  had  remained  to 
her  of  Clare's  allowance,  after  deducting  the  other  half  of 
the  fifty  as  a  contribution  to  her  parents  for  the  trouble 
and  expense  to  which  she  had  put  them,  she  had  as  yet 
spent  but  httle.  But  there  now  followed  an  unfortunate 
interval  of  wet  weather,  during  which  she  was  obliged  to 
fall  back  upon  her  sovereigns. 

She  could  not  bear  to  let  them  go.  Angel  had  put  them 
into  her  hand,  had  obtained  them  bright  and  new  from  his 
bank  for  her ;  his  touch  had  consecrated  them  to  souvenirs 
of  himself — the}"  appeared  to  have  had  as  yet  no  other  his- 
tory than  such  as  was  created  by  his  and  her  own  experi- 
ence— and  to  disperse  them  was  like  giving  aAvay  rehcs. 
But  she  had  to  do  it,  and  one  by  one  they  left  her  hands. 

She  had  been  compelled  to  send  her  mother  her  address 


312  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

from  time  to  time,  but  she  concealed  her  circumstances. 
When  her  money  had  abnost  gone  a  letter  from  her  mother 
reached  her.  Joan  stated  that  they  were  in  di-eadful 
difficulty ;  the  autumn  rains  had  gone  through  the  thatch 
of  the  house,  which  required  entire  renewal ;  but  this  could 
not  be  done  because  the  previous  thatching  had  never  been 
paid  for.  New  rafters  and  a  new  ceiling  upstaii's  also  were 
requii*ed,  wliich,  with  the  previous  bill,  would  amount  to  a 
sum  of  twenty  pounds.  As  her  husband  was  a  man  of 
means,  and  had  doubtless  returned  by  this  time,  could  she 
not  send  them  the  monev? 

Tess  had  thirty  pounds  coming  to  her  abnost  immediately 
from  Angel's  bankers,  and,  the  case  being  so  deplorable, 
as  soon  as  the  sum  was  received  she  sent  the  twenty  as  re- 
quested. 

Part  of  the  remainder  she  was  obHged  to  expend  m  win- 
ter clotliing,  lea\dng  only  a  nominal  sum  for  the  whole  in- 
clement season  at  hand.  When  the  last  pound  had  gone,  a 
remark  of  Angel's  that  whenever  she  required  further  re- 
soiu'ces  she  was  to  apply  to  his  father,  remained  to  be  con- 
sidered. 

But  the  more  Tess  thought  of  the  step  the  more  reluctant 
was  she  to  take  it.  The  same  delicacy,  pride,  false  shame, 
whatever  it  may  be  called,  on  Clare's  account,  which  had 
led  her  to  hide  from  her  own  parents  the  prolongation  of 
the  estrangement,  hindered  her  in  owning  to  his  that  she 
was  in  want  after  the  fair  allowance  he  had  left  her.  They 
probably  despised  her  already ;  how  much  more  would  they 
despise  her  in  the  character  of  a  mendicant?  The  conse- 
quence was  that  by  no  effort  could  the  parson's  daughter- 
in-law  bring  herself  to  let  him  know  her  state. 

Her  reluctance  to  communicate  with  her  husband's  par- 
ents might,  she  thought,  lessen  ^vith.  the  lapse  of  time ;  but 
with  her  own  the  reverse  obtained.  On  her  leaving  their 
house  after  the  short  visit  subsequent  to  her  marriage  they 
were  under  the  impression  that  she  was  ultimately  going 


THE  WOJIAN  PAYS.  313 

to  join  her  husband ;  and  from  that  time  to  the  present  she 
had  done  nothing  to  distiu'b  their  erroneous  belief  that  she 
was  awaiting  his  retui^n  in  comfort,  hoping  against  hope 
that  his  journey  to  Brazil  would  result  in  a  short  stay  only, 
after  which  he  would  come  to  fetch  her,  or  that  he  would 
write  for  her  to  join  him ;  in  any  case  that  they  would  soon 
present  a  united  front  to  then*  families  and  the  world.  This 
hope  she  still  fostered.  To  let  her  parents  know  that  she 
was  a  deserted  wife,  dependent,  now  that  she  had  relieved 
theii*  necessities,  on  her  o^m  hands  for  a  living,  after  the 
triumph  of  a  marriage  which  was  to  nullify  the  collapse  of 
the  first  attempt,  would  be  too  much  indeed. 

The  set  of  brilliants  returned  to  her  mind.  Where  Clare 
had  deposited  them  she  did  not  know,  and  it  mattered 
httle,  if  it  were  tiiie  that  she  could  only  use  and  not  sell 
them.  Even  had  they  been  absolutely  hers,  it  would  be 
passing  mean  to  enrich  herseK  by  a  legal  title  to  them  which 
was  not  essentially  hers  at  all. 

Meanwhile,  her  husband's  days  had  been  by  no  means 
free  from  trial.  At  this  moment  he  was  l}"ing  ill  of  fever 
in  the  clay  lands  near  Curitiba  in  Brazil,  ha\dng  been 
drenched  with  thunder-stoj'ms  and  persecuted  by  other  hard- 
ships, in  common  "\vith  all  the  English  farmers  and  farm 
laborers  who,  just  at  this  time,  were  deluded  into  going 
thither  by  the  promises  of  the  Brazilian  Government,  and  by 
the  baseless  assumption  that  those  frames  which,  plough- 
ing and  sowdng  on  English  uplands,  had  resisted  all  the 
weathers  to  whose  moods  they  had  been  born,  could  resist 
equally  well  all  the  weathers  by  which  they  were  sui^prised 
on  Brazilian  plains. 

To  retm*n.  Thus  it  happened  that  when  the  last  of  Tess's 
sovereigns  had  been  spent  she  was  unprovided  with  others 
to  take  their  place,  while,  on  account  of  the  season,  she 
found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  get  employment.  Not 
being  aware  of  the  rarity  of  intelligence,  energy,  health,  and 
willingness  in  any  sphere  of  life,  she  refrained  from  seeking 


314  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBEmaLLES. 

an  indoor  occupation ;  fearing  towns,  large  houses,  people 
of  means  and  social  sopliistication,  and  of  manners  other 
than  rural.  From  that  direction  of  gentility  Black  Care 
had  come — all  the  troubles  she  had  ever  kno^^Ti.  To  indoor 
work,  indeed,  Tess  had  never  taken  kindly.  Mantua-mak- 
ing she  hated,  so  far  as  she  knew  anything  of  it ;  she  could 
not  stitch  gloves  with  rapidity  sufficient  to  earn  a  mainte- 
nance, as  some  gii-ls  in  the  district  were  wont  to  do  5  and 
upon  the  whole,  the  work  she  was  compelled  to  seek  was  the 
work  she  preferred — that  which  involved  living  in  the  open 
air.  Of  the  winter  wind  she  knew  the  worst,  and  of  the 
bitter  sky.  Society  might  be  better  than  she  supposed 
from  her  slight  experience  of  it.  But  she  had  no  proof  of 
this,  and  her  instinct  in  the  cii-cumstances  was  to  avoid  it. 

The  small  dairies  in  which  she  had  served  as  supernumer- 
ary milkmaid  during  the  spring  and  summer  required  no 
further  aid.  Room  would  probably  have  been  made  for 
her  at  Talbothays,  if  only  out  of  sheer  compassion;  but 
comfortable  as  her  life  had  been  there,  she  could  not  go 
back.  The  anti-climax  woidd  be  too  intolerable ;  and  her 
return  might  bring  reproach  upon  her  idolized  husband. 
She  could  not  have  borne  theii'  i^ity,  and  tlieii*  whispered 
remarks  to  one  another  upon  her  strange  situation ;  though, 
oddly  enough,  she  would  almost  have  faced  a  knowledge 
of  her  circumstances  by  every  individual  there,  so  long  as 
her  story  had  remained  isolated  in  the  mind  of  each.  It 
was  the  interchange  of  ideas  about  her  that  made  her  sen- 
sitiveness wince.  Tess  could  not  account  for  this  distinc- 
tion ;  she  simply  knew  that  she  felt  it. 

Slie  was  now  on  her  way  to  an  upland  farm  in  the  centre 
of  the  county,  to  which  she  had  been  recommended  by  a 
wandering  letter  which  had  reached  her  from  Marian. 
Marian  had  somehow  heard  that  Tess  was  separated  from 
her  husT)aiul — prol)ably  through  Tzz  Huett — and  the  good- 
natured  and  now  ti])pling  gii'l,  deeming  Tess  in  trouble, 
liad  hastened  to  inform  her  former  friend  that  she  herself 


THE  WO^IAN  PAYS.  315 

had  gone  to  this  uphiiid  spot  after  leaving'  the  dairy,  and 
would  like  to  see  her  there,  where  there  was  room  for  other 
hands,  if  it  was  really  true  that  she  worked  again  as  of  oldo 

With  the  shortening  of  the  days  all  hope  of  obtaining 
her  husband's  forgiveness  began  to  leave  her;  and  there 
w^as  something  of  the  habitude  of  the  wild  animal  in  the 
unreflecting  automatism  with  which  she  rambled  on — dis- 
connecting herself  by  littles  from  her  eventful  past  at  every 
step,  obliterating  her  identit}^,  giving  no  thought  to  accidents 
or  contingencies  which  might  make  a  quick  discovery  of 
her  whereabouts  l^y  others  of  importance  to  her  o\\ti  happi- 
ness, if  not  to  theii's. 

Among  the  difficulties  of  her  lonely  position,  not  the  least 
was  the  attention  she  excited  by  her  appearance,  a  certain 
bearing  of  distinction,  which  she  had  caught  from  Clare, 
being  superadded  to  her  natural  attractiveness.  Whilst  the 
clothes  lasted  which  had  been  prepared  for  her  marriage, 
these  casual  glances  of  interest  caused  her  no  inconvenience, 
but  as  soon  as  she  was  compelled  to  don  the  wi'apper  of  a 
field- woman,  rude  words  were  addressed  to  her  more  than 
once ;  but  nothing  occurred  to  cause  her  bodily  fear  till  a 
particular  November  afternoon. 

She  had  preferred  the  fertile  country  of  the  southwest  to 
the  upland  farm  for  which  she  was  now  bound,  because,  for 
one  thing,  it  was  nearer  to  the  home  of  her  husband's  father ; 
and  to  hover  about  that  region  unrecognized,  with  the 
notion  that  she  might  decide  to  caU  at  the  \dcarage  some 
day,  gave  her  pleasm'e.  But  having  once  decided  to  try 
the  higher  and  dryer  levels,  she  pressed  on,  marching  afoot 
towards  the  village  of  Chalk-Newton,  where  she  meant  to 
pass  the  night. 

The  lane  was  long  and  unvaiied,  and,  owing  to  the  rapid 
shortening  of  the  days,  dusk  came  upon  her  before  she  was 
aware.  She  had  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  down  which  the 
lane  stretched  its  serpentine  length  in  glimpses,  when  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her  back,  and  in  a  few  moments 


316  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

she  was  overtaken  by  a  man.  He  stepped  up  alongside 
Tess  and  said,  '*'  Good-nighty  my  pretty  maid/'  to  which  she 
civilly  rephed. 

The  light  still  remaining  in  the  sky  lit  up  her  face,  though 
the  landscape  was  nearly  dark.  The  man  tui^ned  and  stared 
hard  at  her. 

"  Why,  surely,  it  is  the  young  wencli  who  was  at  Trant- 
ridge  awhile — young  Squire  D'Urber^dlle's  fancy?  I  was 
there  at  that  time,  though  I  don't  live  there  now." 

She  recognized  in  him  the  well-to-do  boor  whom  Angel 
had  knocked  down  at  the  inn  for  addressing  her  coarsely, 
when  they  Avent  shopping  together  before  theu'  marriage. 
A  spasm  of  anguish  shot  through  her,  and  she  retm'ned  him 
no  answer. 

"  Be  honest  enough  to  own  it,  and  that  what  I  said  at  the 
pubhc-house  was  true,  though  your  fancy-man  was  so  up 
about  it — hey,  my  sly  one  f  You  ought  to  beg  ni}'  pardon 
for  that  blow  of  his,  considering." 

Still  no  answer  came  from  Tess.  There  seemed  only  one 
escape  for  her  hunted  soul.  She  suddenly  took  to  her  heels 
with  the  speed  of  the  wind,  and,  without  looking  behind 
her,  ran  along  the  road  till  she  came  to  a  gate  which  opened 
dii-ectly  into  a  plantation.  Into  this  she  plunged,  and  did 
not  pause  till  she  was  deep  enough  in  its  shade  to  be  safe 
against  any  possibility  of  discovery. 

Under  foot  the  leaves  were  dry,  and  the  fohage  of  some 
holly  bushes  which  grew  among  the  deciduous  trees  was 
dsnse  enough  to  keep  off  draughts.  She  scraped  together 
the  dead  leaves  till  she  had  formed  them  into  a  large  heap, 
making  a  sort  of  nest  in  the  middle.     Into  this  Tess  crept. 

Such  sleep  as  she  got  was  naturally  fitful ;  she  fancied 
she  heard  strange  noises,  but  persuaded  herself  that  they 
were  caused  by  the  breeze.  She  thought  of  her  husband 
in  some  vague,  warm  clime  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe, 
while  she  was  here  in  the  cold.  Was  there  another  such 
wretched  being  as  she  in  the  world  ?  Tess  asked  herseK ; 


THE  W03L\X  PAYS.  317 

and,  tliinking  of  her  wasted  life,  said,  "  iUl  is  vanity."  She 
repeated  the  words  mechanically,  till  she  reflected  that  this 
was  a  most  inadequate  thought  for  modern  days.  Solomon 
had  thought  as  far  as  that  more  than  two  thousand  years 
ago ;  she  herself,  though  not  in  the  van  of  thinkers,  had 
got  much  further.  If  all  were  only  vanity,  who  would 
mind  it  ?  All  w^as,  alas,  worse  than  vanity  !  The  ^^df e  of 
Angel  Clare  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  felt  its  curve, 
and  edges  of  her  eye-sockets  as  perceptible  under  the  soft 
skin,  and  thought  as  she  did  so  that  there  would  be  a  time 
when  that  bone  would  be  bare.  "  I  wish  it  were  now,"  she 
said. 

In  the  midst  of  these  whimsical  fancies  she  heard  a  new 
strange  sound  among  the  leaves.  It  might  be  the  wind ; 
yet  there  was  scarcely  any  wind.  Sometimes  it  was  a  pal- 
pitation, sometimes  a  flutter;  sometimes  it  was  a  sort  of 
gasp  or  gurgle.  Soon  she  was  certain  that  the  noises  came 
from  wild  creatures  of  some  kind,  the  more  so  when,  origi- 
nating in  the  boughs  overhead,  they  were  followed  by  the 
fall  of  a  heav}^  body  upon  the  ground.  Had  she  been  en- 
sconced here  under  other  and  more  pleasant  conditions,  she 
would  have  become  alarmed;  but,  outside  humanity,  she 
had  at  present  no  fear. 

Day  at  length  broke  in  the  sky.  When  it  had  been  day 
aloft  for  some  little  while  it  became  day  in  the  wood. 

Directly  the  assiuing  and  prosaic  light  of  the  world's 
active  hom'S  had  grown  strong,  she  crept  from  under  her 
hillock  of  leaves,  and  looked  around  boldly.  Then  she  per- 
ceived what  had  been  going  on  to  disturb  her.  The  plan- 
tation wherein  she  had  taken  shelter  ran  down  at  this  spot 
into  a  peak,  which  ended  it  hitherward,  outside  the  hedge 
being  arable  ground.  Under  the  trees  several  pheasants 
lay  about,  their  rich  plumage  dabbled  with  blood;  some 
were  dead,  some  feebly  moving  their  wings,  some  staring 
up  at  the  sk}",  some  pulsating  feebly,  some  contorted,  some 
stretched  out — all  of  them  writhing  in  agony,  except  the 


318  TESS  OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

fortunate  ones  wliose  tortui'es  liad  ended  dm*ing  tlie  niglit 
by  the  inability  of  Nature  to  bear  more. 

Tess  guessed  at  once  the  meaning  of  this.  The  birds  had 
been  driven  down  into  this  comer  the  day  before  by  some 
shooting  party;  and  while  those  that  had  dropped  dead 
under  the  shot,  or  had  died  before  nightfall,  had  been 
searched  for  and  carried  off,  the  slightly  wounded  bii'ds  had 
escaped  and  hidden  themselves  away,  or  risen  among  the 
thick  boughs,  where  they  had  maintained  their  position  till 
they  grew  weaker  with  loss  of  blood  in  the  night-time, 
when  they  had  fallen  one  by  one  as  she  had  heard  them. 

She  had  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  these  men  in 
girlliood,  looking  over  hedges  or  peering  through  bushes, 
and  pointing  their  guns,  strangely  accoutred,  a  bloodthirsty 
light  in  their  eyes.  She  had  been  told  that,  rough  and 
brutal  as  they  seemed  just  then,  they  were  not  like  this  all 
the  year  round,  but  were,  in  fact,  quite  ci\al  persons,  save 
during  certain  weeks  of  autumn  and  \\inter,  when,  like  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Malay  Peninsula,  they  ran  amuck,  and 
made  it  their  purpose  to  destroy  life — in  this  case  harmless 
feathered  creatures,  brought  into  being  by  artificial  means 
solely  to  gratify  these  propensities — conduct  at  once  so  un- 
mannerly and  so  unchivalrous  towards  their  weaker  fellows 
in  Nature's  teeming  family. 

With  the  impulse  of  a  soul  who  could  feel  for  kindred 
sufferers  as  much  as  for  herseK,  Tess's  first  thought  was  to 
put  the  still  living  birds  out  of  their  torture,  and  to  this 
end  mth  her  own  trembling  hands  she  broke  the  necks  of 
as  many  as  she  could  find,  leaving  them  to  lie  where  she 
had  found  them  till  the  gamekeei)ers  should  come — as  they 
probably  would  come — to  look  for  them  a  second  time. 

'^  Poor  darlings — to  suppose  myself  the  most  miserable 
being  on  earth  in  the  sight  of  such  misery  as  yours !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  And  not  a  tmnge  of  bodily  pain  about 
me !  I  be  not  mangled,  and  I  be  not  bleeding,  and  I  have 
two  hands  to  feed  and  clothe  me."     She  was  ashamed  of 


THE  W0:MAN  pays.  319 

herself  for  her  gloom  of  the  uight,  based  on  nothmg  more 
tangible  than  a  sense  of  condemnation  under  an  arbitrary 
law  of  society  which  had  no  foundation  in  natui'e. 


XLII. 

It  was  now  broad  day,  and  she  started  again,  emerging 
cautiously  upon  the  highwa}^  But  there  was  no  need  for 
caution ;  not  a  soul  was  at  hand,  and  Tess  went  onward 
with  fortitude,  her  recollection  of  the  birds  silently  endur- 
ing theu'  night  of  agony  impressing  upon  her  the  relati\dty 
of  sorrows  and  the  tolerable  nature  of  her  own,  if  she  could 
rise  high  enough  to  despise  opinion.  But  that  she  coidd 
not  do  so  long  as  it  was  held  by  Glare. 

She  reached  Chalk-Newton,  and  breakfasted  at  an  inn, 
where  several  young  men  were  troublesomely  compliment- 
ary to  her  good  looks.  Somehow  she  felt  hopeful,  for  was 
it  not  possible  that  her  husband  also  might  say  these  same 
things  to  her  even  yet  ?  Sm'ely  she  was  bound  to  take  care 
of  herseK  on  the  chance  of  it.  To  this  end  Tess  resolved 
to  run  no  further  risks  from  her  appearance.  As  soon  as 
she  got  out  of  the  village  she  entered  a  thicket  and  took 
from  her  basket  one  of  the  old  field-gowns  which  she  had 
never  put  on  even  at  the  dairy — never  since  she  had  worked 
among  the  stubble  at  Marlott.  She  also,  by  a  felicitous 
thought,  took  a  handkerchief  from  her  bundle  and  tied  it 
round  her  face  under  her  bonnet,  covering  her  chin  and 
half  her  cheeks  and  her  temples,  as  if  she  were  suffering 
from  toothache.  Then  with  her  little  scissors,  bv  the  aid  of 
a  pocket  looking-glass,  she  mercilessly  snipped  her  eyebrows 
off,  and  thus  insured  against  aggi^essive  admiration  she 
went  on  her  uneven  way. 

"  What  a  mommet  of  a  maid !  "  said  the  next  man  who 
met  her  to  a  companion. 


320  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes  for  very  pity  of  herseK  as  sl:c 
heard  him. 

''  But  I  don't  care  !  "  said  she.  '^  Oh  no — I  don't  care  ! 
I'll  always  be  ugly  now,  because  Angel  is  not  here,  and  I 
have  nobody  to  take  care  of  me.  My  husband  that  was  is 
gone  away,  and  never  will  love  me  any  more;  but  I  love 
him  just  the  same,  and  hate  all  other  men,  and  like  to  make 
'em  think  scornful  o'  me  !  " 

Thus  Tess  walks  on ;  a  figure  which  is  part  of  the  land- 
scape 5  a  field- worn  an  pure  and  simple,  in  winter  guise :  a 
gTay  serge  cape,  a  red  woollen  cravat,  a  stuff  skirt  covered 
by  a  w^hite^^-brown  rough  "vsTapper,  and  buff -leather  gloves. 
Every  thread  of  that  old  attire  has  become  wire-dra^^Ti  and 
thin  under  the  stroke  of  rain-drops,  the  burn  of  sunbeams, 
and  the  stress  of  winds.     There  is  no  sign  of  young  passion 

in  her  now : 

The  maiden's  mouth  is  cold, 

•  •  •  •  • 

Her  hair  mere  brown  or  gold, 
Fold  over  simple  fold 
Binding  her  head. 

Inside  this  exterior,  over  which  the  eye  might  have  roved 
as  over  a  thing  scarcely  percipient,  almost  inorganic,  there 
was  the  record  of  a  pulsing  life,  of  responsive  spells,  thi'ough 
months  of  pleasure,  and  through  months  of  sighing;  a 
heart  which  had  learnt  of  the  dust  and  ashes  of  thmgs, 
of  the  cruelty  of  lust  and  the  fragility  of  love. 

Next  da}^  the  weather  was  bad,  but  she  trudged  on,  the 
honesty,  directness,  and  impartiality  of  elemental  enmity 
disconcerting  her  but  little.  Her  object  being  a  wintei^'s 
occupation  and  a  mnter's  home,  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
Her  experience  of  short  hirings  had  been  such  that  she  de- 
termined to  accept  no  more. 

Thus  she  went  forward  from  farm  to  farm  in  the  du-ection 
of  the  place  whence  Marian  had  written  to  her,  which  she 
determined  to  make  use  of  as  a  last  shift  only,  its  rumored 


THE   \V0:\1AN   PAYS.  321 

stringencies  being  the  reverse  of  tempting.  First  she  in- 
quired for  the  lighter  kinds  of  employment,  and,  as  accept- 
ance in  any  variety  of  these  grew  hopeless,  applied  next  for 
the  less  hght,  till,  beginning  with  the  dahy  and  poultry 
tendance  that  she  hked  best,  she  ended  with  the  heavy  and 
coarse  piu'suits  that  she  liked  least — work  on  arable  land : 
work  of  such  roughness,  indeed,  as  she  would  never  have 
deliberately  volunteered  for. 

Towards  the  second  evening  she  reached  the  irregular 
chalk  table-land  or  plateau,  bosomed  with  prehistoric  semi- 
globidar  tumuli — as  if  Cybele  the  Many-breasted  were  su- 
pinely extended  there — which  stretched  between  the  valley 
of  her  birth  and  the  valley  of  her  love. 

Here  the  air  was  dry  and  cold,  and  the  long  cart-roads 
w^ere  blown  white  and  dusty  again  within  a  few  hours  after 
rain.  There  were  few"  trees  or  none,  those  that  Tvould  have 
grown  in  the  hedges  being  mercilessly  plashed  down  with 
the  quickset  by  the  tenant-farmers,  the  natm'al  enemies  of 
tree,  bush,  and  brake.  In  the  middle  distance  ahead  of  her 
she  could  see  the  summits  of  Bulbarrow  and  of  Xettle- 
combe-Tout,  and  they  seemed  friendly.  They  had  a  low 
and  unassuming  aspect  from  this  upland,  though  as  seen 
on  the  other  side  from  Blackmoor  in  her  childhood  they 
were  as  lofty  bastions  against  the  sky.  Southerly,  at  many 
miles'  distance,  and  over  the  hills  and  ridges  coastward,  she 
coidd  discern  a  surface  hke  polished  steel :  it  was  the  Eng- 
lish Channel  at  a  point  far  out  towards  France. 

Before  her,  in  a  slight  depression,  were  the  remains  of  a 
\allage.  She  had,  in  fact,  reached  Flintcomb-Ash,  the  place 
of  Marian's  sojourn.  There  seemed  to  be  no  help  for  it; 
hither  she  was  doomed  to  come.  The  stubborn  soil  around 
her  showed  plainly  enough  that  the  kind  of  labor  in  demand 
here  was  of  the  roughest  kind ;  but  it  was  time  to  rest  from 
searcliing,  and  here  she  resolved  to  stay,  particularly  as  it 
began  to  rain.  At  the  entrance  to  the  village  was  a  cottage 
whose  gable  jutted  into  the  road^  and  before  applying  for 

21 


322  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

a  lodging  she  stood  under  its  sTielter,  and  watched  the 
evening  close  in. 

"  Who  would  think  I  was  Mrs.  Angel  Clare  ! ''  she  said. 

The  wall  felt  warm  to  her  back  and  shoulders,  and  she 
found  that  immediately  within  the  gable  was  the  cottage 
fireplace,  the  heat  of  which  came  through  the  bricks.  She 
warmed  her  hands  ujdou  them,  and  also  put  her  cheek — red 
and  moist  with  the  drizzle — against  their  comforting  sur- 
face. The  wall  seemed  to  be  the  only  friend  she  had.  She 
had  so  httle  wish  to  leave  it  that  she  could  have  stayed 
there  all  night. 

Tess  could  hear  the  occupants  of  the  cottage — gathered 
together  after  then*  day's  labor — talking  to  each  other  with- 
in, and  the  rattle  of  their  supper-2:)lates  was  also  audible. 
But  in  the  village  street  she  had  seen  no  soul  as  yet.  The 
soHtude  was  at  last  broken  by  the  approach  of  one  femi- 
nine figui'e,  who,  though  the  evening  was  cold,  wore  the 
print  gown  and  the  tilt-bonnet  of  summer-time.  Tess  in- 
stinctively thought  it  might  be  Marian,  and  when  she  came 
near  enough  to  be  distinguishable  in  the  gloom  sui^ely 
enough  it  was  she.  Marian  was  even  stouter  and  redder 
in  the  face  than  formerly,  and  decided^  shabbier  in  attire. 
At  any  j)revious  period  of  her  existence  Tess  would  hardly 
have  cared  to  renew  the  acquaintance  in  such  conditions ; 
but  her  loneliness  was  excessive,  and  she  responded  readily 
to  Marian's  greeting. 

Marian  was  quite  respectful  in  her  inquiries,  but  seemed 
much  moved  by  the  fact  that  Tess  should  still  continue  in 
no  better  condition  than  at  first;  though  she  had  dimly 
heard  of  the  separation. 

"  Tess — Mrs.  Clare — the  dear  wife  of  dear  he !  And  is  it 
really  so  bad  as  this,  my  child  ?  Why  is  your  comely  face 
tied  up  in  such  a  way  ?  Anybody  been  beating  'ee  ?  Not 
he ! " 

'^No,  no,  no  !  I  merely  did  it  to  keep  off  clipsing  and 
colling,  Marian."  She  luilled  (^ff  in  disgust  a  banda.ge 
which  could  suggest  such  wild  thoughts. 


THE   WOMAN  PAYS.  323 

'^And  youVe  got  no  collar  on."  (Tess  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  wear  a  little  white  collar  at  the  dairy.) 

''  I  know  it,  Marian." 

'^  You've  lost  it  travelling  f " 

'^  I've  not  lost  it.  The  truth  is,  I  don't  care  anything 
about  my  appearance  ;  and  so  I  didn't  put  it  on." 

'^  And  you  don't  wear  your  wedding-ring  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  but  not  publicly.  I  wear  it  round  my  neck 
on  a  ribbon.  I  don't  wish  people  to  think  who  I  am  by 
marriage,  or  that  I  am  married  at  all ;  it  would  be  so  awk- 
ward while  I  lead  my  present  life." 

Marian  paused.  "  But  you  he  a  gentleman's  wife ;  and 
it  seems  hardly  fair  that  you  should  live  like  this !  " 

"  Oh  yes  it  is,  quite  fair ;  though  I  am  very  unhappy." 

'^  Well,  well.   He  married  you — and  you  can  be  unhappy ! " 

'^  Wives  are  unhappy  sometimes ;  from  no  fault  of  their 
husbands — from  their  own." 

"You've  no  faults,  deary;  that  I'm  sure  of.  And  he's 
none.     So  it  must  be  something  outside  ye  both." 

"  Marian,  dear  Marian,  will  you  do  me  a  good  turn  with- 
out asking  questions  ?  My  husband  has  gone  abroad,  and 
somehow  I  have  overrun  my  allowance,  so  that  I  have  to 
fall  back  upon  my  old  work  for  a  time.  Do  not  call  me 
Mrs.  Clare,  but  Tess,  as  before.  Do  thc}^  want  a  hand 
here?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  they'll  take  one  always,  because  few  care  to 
come.  'Tis  a  starve-acre  place.  Corn  and  swedes  are  all 
they  groAV.  Though  I  be  here  myself,  I  feel  'tis  a  pity  for 
such  as  you  to  come." 

"  But  you  used  to  be  as  good  a  dair^^voman  as  I." 

"Yes;  but  IVe  got  out  o'  that  since  I  took  to  drink. 
Lord,  that's  the  only  happiness  I've  got  now  !  If  you  en- 
gage, you'll  be  set  swede-hacking.  That's  what  I  be  doing ; 
but  you  won't  like  it." 

"  O — anything !     Will  you  speak  for  me  ? " 

"  You  will  do  better  by  speaking  for  yoiu'self ." 


324  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

him,  if  I  get  the  place.  I  don't  wish  to  bring  his  name 
down  to  the  dirt." 

Marian,  who  was  really  a  trustworthy  girl,  though  of 
coarser  grain  than  Tess,  promised  anything  she  asked. 
"  This  is  pay-night/'  she  said,  "  and  if  you  were  to  come 
with  me  you  would  know  at  once.  I  be  real  sorry  that 
you  are  not  happy ;  but  'tis  because  he's  away,  I  know. 
You  couldn't  be  unhappy  if  he  were  here,  even  if  he  gave 
you  no  money — even  if  he  used  you  like  a  drudge." 

^^  That's  true ;  I  could  not !  " 

They  walked  on  together,  and  soon  reached  the  farm- 
house, which  was  almost  sublime  in  its  dreariness.  There 
was  not  a  tree  mthin  sight ;  there  was  not,  at  this  season, 
a  green  pasture — nothing  but  fallow  and  turnips  every- 
where ;  in  large  fields  divided  by  hedges  monotonously 
plashed  to  unrelieved  levels. 

Tess  waited  outside  the  door  of  the  farmhouse  till  the 
group  of  work-folk  had  received  their  wages,  and  then 
Marian  introduced  her.  The  farmer  himself,  it  appeared, 
was  not  at  home,  but  his  wife,  who  represented  him  this 
evening,  made  no  objection  to  hiring  Tess,  on  her  agreeing 
to  remain  till  Old  Ladv-Dav.  Female  field-labor  was  sel- 
dom  offered  now,  and  its  cheapness  made  it  profitable  for 
tasks  which  women  could  perform  as  readily  as  men. 

Having  signed  the  agreement,  there  was  nothing  more 
for  Tess  to  do  at  present  than  to  get  a  lodging,  and  she 
found  one  in  the  house  at  whose  gable-Avall  she  had  warmed 
herself.  It  was  a  poor  subsistence  that  she  had  ensured, 
but  it  would  afford  a  shelter  for  the  winter  at  anv  rate. 

That  night  she  wrote  to  inform  her  parents  of  her  new 
address,  in  case  a  letter  should  arrive  at  Marlott  from  her 
husband.  But  she  did  not  tell  them  of  the  sorriness  of  her 
situation  :  it  might  have  brought  reproach  upon  him. 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  325 


XLIIL 

There  was  no  exaggeration  in  Marian's  definition  of 
Flintcomb-Ash  farm  as  a  starve-acre  place.  The  single  fat 
thing  on  the  soil  was  Marian  herself :  and  she  was  an  im- 
portation. Of  the  three  classes  of  village,  the  \dllage  cared 
for  by  its  lord,  the  village  cared  for  by  itself,  and  the  village 
uncared  for  either  b}'  itself  or  by  its  lord — (in  other  words, 
the  village  of  a  resident  squire's  tenantry,  the  \dllage  of 
free  or  copyholders,  and  the  absentee-owner's  village,  farmed 
with  the  land) — tliis  place,  Flintcomb-Ash,  was  the  third. 

But  Tess  set  to  work.  Patience,  that  blending  of  moral 
courage  with  physical  timidity,  was  now  no  longer  a  minor 
feature  in  Mrs.  Angel  Clare ;  and  it  sustained  her. 

The  swede-field,  in  which  she  and  her  companion  w^ere 
set  hacking,  was  a  stretch  of  a  hundred  odd  acres,  in  one 
patch,  on  the  highest  ground  of  the  farm,  rising  above 
stony  lanchets  or  lynchets — the  outcrop  of  silicious  veins 
in  the  chalk  formation,  composed  of  myriads  of  loose  white 
flints  in  bulbous,  cusped,  and  phallic  shapes.  The  upper 
half  of  each  turnip  had  been  eaten  off  by  the  live-stock, 
and  it  was  the  business  of  the  two  women  to  grub  out  the 
lower  or  earthy  half  of  the  root  with  a  hooked  fork  called 
a  hacker,  that  this  might  be  eaten  also.  Every  leaf  of  the 
vegetable  ha^dng  previously  been  consumed,  the  whole  field 
was  in  color  a  desolate  drab ;  it  was  a  complexion  without 
features,  as  if  a  face,  from  chin  to  brow,  should  be  only  an 
expanse  of  skin.  The  sky  wore,  in  another  color,  the  same 
likeness;  a  white  vacuitv  of  countenance  with  the  linea- 
ments  gone.  So  these  two  upper  and  nether  \dsages  con- 
fronted each  other  all  day  long,  the  white  face  looking 
down  on  the  brown  face,  and  the  brown  face  looking  up  at 
the  white  face,  without  anything  standing  between  them 


326  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

but  the  two  girls  crawling  over  the  surface  of  the  former 
like  flies. 

Nobody  came  near  them,  and  their  movements  showed  a 
mechanical  regularity;  theu^  forms  enshrouded  in  rough 
Hessian  "  v\^'oppers  " — sleeved  brown  pinafores,  tied  behind 
to  the  bottom,  to  keep  their  gowns  from  blowing  about — 
short  skirts  revealing  "  skitty  boots"  that  reached  high  up 
the  ankles,  and  yellow  sheepskin  gloves  with  gauntlets. 
The  pensive  character  which  the  curtained  hood  lent  to 
their  bent  heads  would  have  reminded  the  observer  of  some 
early  Italian  conception  of  the  two  Marys. 

They  worked  on  hour  after  hour,  unconscious  of  the 
forlorn  aspect  they  bore  in  the  landscape,  not  thinking  of 
the  justice  or  injustice  of  their  lot.  Even  in  such  a  posi- 
tion as  theirs  it  was  possible  to  exist  in  a  dream.  In  the 
afternoon  the  rain  came  on  again,  and  Marian  said  that 
they  need  not  work  any  more,  though  if  they  did  not  w^ork 
they  would  not  be  paid ;  so  they  w^orked  on.  It  was  so 
high  a  situation,  this  field,  that  the  rain  had  no  occasion  to 
fall,  but  raced  along  horizontally  upon  the  yelling  TNdnd, 
sticking  into  them  like  glass  splinters,  till  by  degrees  they 
were  wet  through.  Tess  had  not  known  till  now — indeed, 
few  people  of  either  sex  know — what  is  really  meant  by 
that.  There  are  degi^ees  of  dampness,  and  a  very  little  is 
called  being  wTt  through  in  common  talk.  But  to  stand 
w^orking  slowly  in  a  field,  and  feel  the  creep  of  rain-water, 
first  in  legs  and  shoulders,  then  on  hips  and  head,  then  at 
back,  front,  and  sides,  and  yet  to  work  on  till  the  leaden 
light  diminishes  and  marks  that  the  sun  is  dowTi,  demands 
a  distinct  modicum  of  stoicism,  even  of  valor. 

Yet  they  did  not  feel  the  witness  so  much  as  might  be 
supposed.  Tliey  were  both  young,  and  they  were  talking 
of  the  time  when  they  lived  and  loved  together  at  Talbo- 
thays  Dairy,  that  happy  green  tract  of  land  where  summer 
had  been  liberal  in  her  gifts ;  in  substance  to  all,  emotion- 
ally to  these.     Tess  would  fain  not  have  conversed  with 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  327 

Marian  of  the  man  who  was  legally,  if  not  obvionsly,  her 
hnsbancl ;  but  the  iiTesistible  fascination  of  the  subject  be- 
trayed her  into  reciprocating  Marian's  remarks.  And  thus, 
as  has  been  said,  though  the  damp  curtains  of  their  bonnets 
flapped  smartly  into  their  faces,  and  their  wrappers  clung 
about  them  to  wearisomeness,  they  liyed  all  this  afternoon 
in  memories  of  green,  sunny,  romantic  Talbothays. 

'^  You  can  see  a  gleam  of  a  hill  within  a  few  miles  of 
Froom  Valley  from  here  when  it  is  fine,"  said  Marian. 

'^  Ah  !  Can  you  ? "  said  Tess,  awake  to  the  new  yalue  of 
the  locality. 

So  the  two  forces  were  at  work  here  as  eyerywhere,  the 
inherent  ^Yi]l  to  enjoy,  and  the  circumstantial  will  against 
enjoyment.  Marian's  ^dll  had  a  method  of  assisting  itself 
by  taking  from  her  pocket,  as  the  afternoon  wore  on,  a  pint 
bottle  corked  ^yith  a  white  rag,  from  which  she  in\dted  Tess 
to  drink.  Tess's  unassisted  power  of  dreaming,  howeyer, 
being  enough  for  her  sublimation  at  present,  she  declined 
except  the  merest  sip,  and  then  Marian  took  a  pull  herself 
from  the  bottle. 

^'  I'ye  got  used  to  it,"  she  said,  "  and  can't  leaye  it  off 

now.     'Tis  my  only  comfort You  see  I  lost  him  :  you 

didn't ;  and  you  can  do  without  it  perhaps." 

Tess  thought  her  loss  as  great  as  Marian's,  but  upheld 
by  the  dignity  of  being  Angel's  wife,  in  the  letter  at  least, 
she  accepted  Marian's  differentiation. 

Amid  this  scene  Tess  slayed  in  the  morning  frosts  and  in 
the  afternoon  rains.  When  it  was  not  swede-hacking  it 
was  swede-trimming,  in  which  process  they  sliced  off  the 
earth  and  the  fibres  with  a  l^ill-hook  before  storing  the 
roots  for  future  use.  At  this  occupation  they  could  shelter 
themselyes  by  a  thatched  hurdle  if  it  rained ;  but  if  it  was 
frosty,  eyen  their  thick  leather  gloyes  could  not  preyent 
the  frozen  masses  they  handled  from  biting  their  fingers. 
Still  Tess  hoped.  She  had  a  conyiction  that  sooner  or  later 
the  magnanimity  which  she  persisted  in  reckoning  as  a 


328  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

chief  ingredient  of  Clare's  character  would  lead  him  to 
rejoin  herj  and  what  would  a  winter  of  swede-trimming 
matter  if  it  resulted  in  such  a  consummation  ? 

They  often  looked  across  the  country  to  where  Froom 
Valley  was  known  to  stretch,  even  though  they  might  not 
be  able  to  see  itj  and,  fixing  their  eyes  on  the  cloaking 
gray  mist,  imagined  the  old  times  they  had  spent  out  there. 

"All,"  said  Marian,  "howl  should  like  another  or  two 
of  our  old  set  to  come  here !  Then  we  could  bring  up 
Talbothays  ever}^  day  here  afield,  and  talk  of  he,  and  of 
what  nice  times  we  had  there,  and  o'  the  old  things  we  used 
to  know,  and  make  it  all  come  back  again  a'most,  in  seem- 
ing !  "  Marian's  eyes  softened,  and  her  voice  grew  vague 
as  the  visions  returned.  "  I'll  T\Tite  to  Izz  Huett,"  she  said. 
"  She's  biding  at  home  doing  nothing  now,  I.  know,  and  I'll 
tell  her  we  be  here,  and  ask  her  to  come ;  and  perhaps  Retty 
is  well  enough  now.'^ 

Tess  had  nothing  to  say  against  the  proposal,  and  the 
next  she  heard  of  this  plan  for  importing  old  Talbothays' 
joys  was  two  or  three  days  later,  w^hen  Marian  informed 
her  that  Izz  had  replied  to  her  inquiry,  and  had  promised 
to  come  if  she  could. 

There  had  not  been  such  a  winter  for  years.  It  came  on 
in  stealthy  and  measured  glides,  like  the  moves  of  a  chess- 
player. One  morning  the  few  lonely  trees  and  the  thorns 
of  the  hedgerows  appeared  as  if  they  had  put  off  a  vegeta- 
ble for  an  animal  integument.  Every  twig  was  covered 
wdth  a  white  nap  as  of  fur  grown  from  the  rind  during  the 
night,  giving  it  four  times  its  usual  dimensions ;  the  whole 
bush  or  tree  forming  a  startling  sketch  in  white  lines  on  the 
mournful  gi^ay  of  the  sky  and  horizon.  Cobwebs  revealed 
their  presence  on  sheds  and  walls  where  none  had  ever 
been  observed  till  brought  out  into  visibilitv  by  the  crvs- 
tallizing  atmosplicre,  hanging  like  loops  of  white  worsted 
from  salient  points  of  the  outhouses,  posts,  and  gates. 

After  this  season  of  congealed  dampness  came  a  spell  of 


THE   WOMAN   PAYS.  329 

dry  frost,  when  strange  bii'ds  from  behind  the  North  Pole 
began  to  arrive  silently  on  the  upland  of  Flintcomb-Ash ; 
gannt  spectral  creatures  with  tragical  eyes — eyes  which 
had  witnessed  scenes  of  cataclysmal  hoiTor  in  inaccessible 
polar  regions,  of  a  magnitude  such  as  no  human  being  had 
ever  conceived,  in  curdling  temperatures  that  no  man  could 
endure ;  wliich  had  beheld  the  crash  of  icebergs  and  the 
slide  of  snow-hills  by  the  shooting  light  of  the  Aurora ; 
been  half  blinded  by  the  whirl  of  colossal  storms  and  ter- 
raqueous distortions ;  and  retained  the  expression  of  fea- 
ture that  such  scenes  had  engendered.  These  nameless 
birds  came  quite  near  to  Tess  and  Marian,  but  of  all  they 
had  seen  which  humanitv  would  never  see  thev  broug^ht 
no  account.  The  traveller's  ambition  to  tell  was  not  theirs, 
and,  T\dth  dumb  impassivity,  they  dismissed  experiences 
which  thev  did  not  value  for  the  immediate  incidents  of 
this  upland — the  trivial  movements  of  the  two  girls  in 
disturbing  the  clods  with  their  fragile  hackers  so  as  to  un- 
cover something  or  other  that  these  \dsitants  relished  as 
food. 

Then  one  day  a  peculiar  quality  invaded  the  air  of  this 
open  country.  There  came  a  moisture  which  was  not  the 
moisture  of  rain,  and  a  cold  which  was  not  the  cold  of  frost. 
It  chilled  the  eyeballs  of  the  twain,  made  their  brows  ache, 
penetrated  to  their  skeletons,  affecting  tlie^  surface  of  the 
body  less  than  its  core.  They  knew  that  it  meant  snow, 
and  in  the  night  the  snow  came.  Tess,  who  continued  to 
live  at  the  cottage  with  the  warm  gable  that  cheered  the 
lonely  pedestrian  who  paused  beside  it,  awoke  in  the  night, 
and  heard  above  the  thatch  noises  which  seemed  to  signify 
that  the  roof  had  turned  itseK  into  a  gymnasium  of  all  the 
"wdnds.  Wlien  she  lit  her  lamp  to  get  up  in  the  morning, 
she  found  that  the  snow  had  blown  through  a  chink  in  the 
casement,  forming  a  white  cone  of  the  finest  powder  against 
the  inside,  and  had  also  come  down  the  chimney,  so  that  it 
lay  sole-deep  upon  the  floor,  on  which  her  shoes  left  tracks 


330  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

when  she  moved  about.  Without,  the  storm  drove  so  fast 
as  to  create  a  snow-mist  in  the  kitchen ;  but  as  yet  it  was 
too  dark  out-of-doors  to  see  an;v"thing. 

Tess  knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  with  the 
swedes ;  and  by  the  time  she  had  finished  breakfast  by  the 
hght  of  the  solitary  little  lamp,  Marian  arrived  to  tell  her 
that  they  were  to  join  the  rest  of  the  women  at  reed-draw- 
ing in  the  barn  till  the  weather  changed.  As  soon,  there- 
fore, as  the  uniform  cloak  of  darkness  without  began  to 
turn  to  a  disordered  medley  of  feeble  grays,  they  blew  out 
the  lamp,  -s^^-apped  themselves  up  in  their  thickest  pinners, 
tied  their  woollen  cravats  round  their  necks  and  across 
their  chests,  and  started  for  the  barn.  The  snow  had  fol- 
lowed the  birds  from  the  polar  loasin  as  a  white  pillar  of  a 
cloud,  and  individual  flakes  coidd  not  be  seen.  The  blast 
smelt  of  icebergs,  arctic  seas,  whales,  and  "vvhite  bears,  carr}^- 
ing  the  snow  so  that  it  licked  the  land  but  did  not  he  on  it. 
They  trudged  onwards  with  slanted  bodies  through  the 
flossy  fields,  keeping  as  well  as  they  could  in  the  shelter 
of  hedges,  which,  however,  acted  as  strainers  rather  than 
screens.  The  air,  afflicted  to  pallor  with  the  hoar}^  multi- 
tudes that  infested  it,  twisted  and  spun  them  eccentrically, 
suggesting  an  achromatic  chaos  of  things.  But  both  the 
young  women  were  fairly  cheerful ;  such  weather  on  a  dry 
upland  is  not  in  itself  dispiriting. 

"The  cunning  northern  birds  knew  this  was  coming," 
said  Marian.  "  Depend  upon  't,  they  kept  just  in  front  of 
it  all  the  w^ay  from  the  North  Star.  Your  husband,  my 
dear,  is,  I  make  no  doubt,  having  scorching  weather  all 
this  time.  Lord,  if  he  could  only  see  his  pretty  wife  now ! 
Not  that  this  weather  hurts  your  beauty  at  all — in  fact,  it 
rather  does  it  good." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  about  him  to  me,  Marian,"  said  Tess, 
severely. 

"  Well,  but — surely  you  care  for  him.     Do  you  ? " 

Instead  of  answering,  Tess,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  im- 


THE  WO:\IAN  PAYS.  331 

pulsively  faced  in  the  clii'ection  in  which  she  imagined 
South  America  to  lie,  and,  putting  up  her  hps,  blew  out  a 
passionate  kiss  upon  the  snowy  wind. 

^'  Well,  well,  I  know  you  do.  But  'j^on  my  body,  it  is  a 
rum  life  for  a  married  couple  !  There — I  won't  say  another 
word !  Well,  as  for  the  weather,  it  won't  hurt  us  in  the 
wheat-barn ;  but  reed-drawing  is  fearful  hard  work — worse 
than  swede-hacking.  I  can  stand  it  because  I'm  stout ;  but 
you  be  slimmer  than  I.  I  can't  think  why  maister  should 
have  set  'ee  at  it." 

They  reached  the  wheat-loarn  and  entered  it.  One  end 
of  the  long  structm-e  was  full  of  corn ;  the  midtUe  was 
where  the  reed-drawing  was  carried  on,  and  there  had  al- 
ready been  placed  in  the  reed-press  the  evening  before  as 
many  sheaves  of  w^heat  as  would  be  sufficient  for  the  women 
to  draw  from  during  the  day. 

"  Why,  here's  Izz  !  "  said  Marian. 

Izz  it  was,  and  she  came  forward.  She  had  walked  aU 
the  way  from  her  mother's  home  on  the  previous  afternoon, 
and  not  deeming  the  distance  so  great  had  been  belated, 
arriving,  however,  just  before  the  snow  began,  and  sleeping 
at  the  ale-house.  The  farmer  had  agreed  with  her  mother 
at  market  to  take  her  on  if  she  came  to-dav,  and  she  had 
been  afraid  to  disappoint  him  by  delay. 

In  addition  to  Tess,  Marian,  and  Izz,  there  were  two 
women  from  a  neighboring  \allage  5  two  Amazonian  sis- 
ters, whom  Tess  with  a  start  remembered  as  Dark  Car  the 
Queen  of  Spades,  and  her  junior  the  Queen  of  Diamonds — 
those  who  had  tried  to  fight  with  her  in  the  midnight  quar- 
rel at  Trantridge.  They  showed  no  recognition  of  her,  and 
possibly  had  none.  They  did  all  kinds  of  men's  work  by 
preference,  including  well-sinking,  hedging,  ditching,  and 
excavating,  T\dthout  any  sense  of  fatigue.  Xoted  reed-draw- 
ers were  they  too,  and  looked  round  upon  the  other  three 
"vvith  some  superciliousness. 

Putting  on  their  gloves,  they  aU  set  to  work,  standing  in 


332  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

a  row  in  front  of  the  press.  That  erection  was  formed  of 
two  upright  posts  connected  by  a  cross-beam,  under  which 
the  sheaves  to  be  drawn  from  were  laid  ears  outward,  the 
beam  being  pegged  down  by  pins  in  the  uprights,  and 
lowered  as  the  sheaves  diminished.  Each  woman  seized  a 
handful  of  the  ears,  and  drew  out  the  stalks  thereby,  gath- 
ering the  straw  so  draT\Ti — now  straight,  and  called  reed — 
under  her  left  arm,  where,  when  a  large  armful  was  gath- 
ered, she  cut  off  the  ears  with  a  bill-hook. 

The  day  hardened  in  color,  the  Ught  coming  in  at  the 
barn-doors  upwards  from  the  ground  instead  of  downwards 
from  the  sky.  The  girls  pulled  handful  after  handful  from 
the  press;  but  by  reason  of  the  presence  of  the  strange 
women,  who  were  recounting  local  scandals,  Marian  and 
Izz  could  not  at  first  talk  of  old  times  as  they  wished  to  do. 
Presently  they  heard  the  muffled  tread  of  a  horse,  and  the 
farmer  rode  up  to  the  barn-door,  ^lien  he  had  dismounted 
and  entered  he  came  close  to  Tess,  and  remained  looking 
musingly  at  the  side  of  her  face.  She  had  not  turned  at 
first,  but  his  fixed  attitude  led  her  to  look  round,  when  she 
perceived  that  her  employer  was  the  native  of  Trantridge 
from  whom  she  had  taken  flight  on  the  high-road  because 
of  his  allusion  to  her  history. 

He  waited  till  she  had  carried  the  dra^Ti  bundles  to  the 
pile  outside,  when  he  said,  "  So  you  be  the  young  woman 
who  took  my  civility  in  such  ill  part  ?  Be  drowned  if  I 
didn't  think  you  might  be  as  soon  as  I  heard  of  your  being 
hired.  Well,  you  thought  you  had  got  the  better  of  me  the 
first  time  at  the  inn  with  your  fancy-man,  and  the  second 
time  on  the  road,  when  you  bolted ;  but  now  I  think  I've 
got  the  better  of  you."     He  concluded  with  a  hard  laugh. 

Tess,  between  the  Amazonians  and  the  farmer,  like  a  bird 
caught  in  a  springe  clap-net,  returned  no  answer,  continu- 
ing to  pull  the  straw.  She  could  read  character  sufficiently 
well  to  know  by  this  time  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
her  employei-'s  gallantry  j  it  was  rather  the  tyranny  iiiduced 


THE   WOIMAN   PAYS.  333 

by  Hs  mortification  at  Clare's  treatment  of  him.  Upon  the 
whole,  she  preferred  that  sentiment  in  man,  and  felt  brave 
enough  to  endm-e  it. 

"  You  thought  I  was  in  love  with  'ee,  I  suppose  1  Some 
women  are  such  fools,  to  take  every  look  as  serious  earnest. 
But  there's  nothing  like  a  A^dnter  afield  for  taking  that  non- 
sense out  o'  yoimg  women's  heads ;  and  you've  signed  and 
agreed  till  Lady-Day.  Now,  are  you  going  to  beg  my  par- 
don ? " 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  beg  mine." 

^^  Very  well — as  you  Uke.  But  we'll  see  which  is  master 
here.     Be  they  aU  the  sheaves  you've  done  to-day  ? " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  'Tis  a  very  poor  show.  Just  see  what  they've  done  over 
there"  (pointing  to  the  two  stalwart  women).  "The  rest, 
too,  have  done  better  than  vou." 

"  They've  all  practised  it  before,  and  I  have  not.  And  I 
thought  it  made  no  difference  to  you  as  it  is  task  work,  and 
we  are  only  paid  for  what  we  do." 

"  0,  but  it  does.     I  want  the  barn  cleared." 

"  I  am  going  to  work  all  the  afternoon  instead  of  lea\ing 
at  two  as  the  others  will  do." 

He  looked  sullenly  at  her  and  went  away.  Tess  felt  that 
she  could  not  have  come  to  a  much  worse  place ;  but  any- 
thing was  better  than  gallantry,  in  her  unprotected  state. 
When  two  o'clock  arrived  the  professional  reed-draAvers 
tossed  off  the  last  half -pint  in  their  flagon,  put  down  their 
hooks,  tied  their  last  sheaves,  and  went  away.  Marian  and 
Izz  would  have  done  likewise,  but  on  hearing  that  Tess 
meant  to  stay,  to  make  up  by  longer  hours  for  her  lack  of 
skill,  they  would  not  leave  her.  Looking  out  at  the  snow, 
which  still  fell,  Marian  exclaimed,  "Now  we've  got  it  all  to 
ourselves."  And  so  at  last  the  conversation  turned  to  their 
old  experiences  at  the  daiiy ;  and,  of  course,  the  incidents 
of  their  affection  for  Angel  Clare. 

"  Izz  and  Marian,"  said  Mrs.  Angel  Clare,  ^dth  a  dignity 


334  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

wHch  was  extremely  pretty  and  touching,  seeing  how  very 
little  of  a  wife  she  was :  "  I  can't  join  in  talk  with  you  now, 
as  I  used  to  do,  about  Mr.  Clare ;  you  will  see  that  I  can- 
not ;  because,  although  he  is  gone  away  from  me  for  the 
present,  he  is  my  husband." 

Izz  was  by  natm^e  the  sauciest  and  most  caustic  of  all  the 
four  girls  who  had  loved  Clare.  "  He  was  a  very  splendid 
lover,  no  doubt,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  don't  think  he  is  a  very 
good  husband  to  go  away  from  you  so  soon." 

"  He  had  to  go — he  was  obhged  to  go,  to  see  about  the 
land  over  there,"  pleaded  Tess. 

"  He  might  have  tided  'ee  over  the  winter." 

^'  Ah — that's  owing  to  an  accident — a  misunderstanding, 
and  we  won't  argue  it,"  Tess  answered,  with  tearfulness  in 
her  words.  "  Perhaps  there's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for 
him !  He  did  not  go  away,  like  some  husbands,  without 
tellino"  me :  and  I  can  alwavs  find  out  where  he  is." 

After  this,  they  continued  to  seize,  pull,  and  cut  off  the 
ears  for  some  long  time  in  a  reverie,  nothing  sounding  in 
the  barn  but  the  swish  of  the  drawn  straw  and  the  crunch 
of  the  hook.  Then  Tess  suddenly  flagged,  and  sank  down 
upon  the  heap  of  wheat  ears  at  her  feet. 

"  I  knew  3^ou  wouldn't  be  able  to  stand  it !  "  cried  Marian. 
"  It  wants  harder  flesh  than  yours  for  this  work." 

Just  then  the  farmer  entered.  ''O,  that's  how  you  get 
on  when  I  am  away,"  he  said  to  her. 

^'  But  it  is  my  own  loss,"  she  pleaded.     ^'Not  yours." 

"  I  want  it  finished,"  he  said,  doggedly,  as  he  crossed  the 
barn,  and  went  out  at  the  other  door. 

''  Don't  'ee  mind  him,  there's  a  dear,"  said  Marian.  "  I've 
worked  here  before.  Now  you  go  and  lie  down  there,  and 
Izz  and  I  will  make  up  your  number." 

''  I  don't  like  to  let  you  do  that.     I'm  taller  than  you,  too." 

However,  she  was  so  overcome  that  she  consented  to  lie 
down  awhile,  and  reclined  on  a  heap  of  pull-tails — the  ref- 
use after  the  straight  straw  had  been  drawn — which  had 


THE  W031AN  PAYS.  335 

been  tlu'own  np  at  the  fartlier  side  of  the  barn.  Her  snc- 
eumbing  had  been  as  largely  owing  to  agitation  at  reopen- 
ing the  subject  of  her  separation  from  her  husband  as  to 
the  hard  work.  She  lay  in  a  state  of  percipience  without 
voHtion,  and  the  rustle  of  the  straw  and  the  cutting  of  the 
ears  had  the  weight  of  bodily  touches. 

She  could  hear  from  her  corner,  in  addition  to  these 
noises,  the  murmur  of  their  voices.  She  felt  certain  that 
they  were  continuing  the  subject  already  broached,  but  their 
voices  were  so  low  that  she  could  not  catch  the  words.  At 
last  Tess  grew  more  and  more  anxious  to  know  what  they 
were  saying,  and,  persuading  herself  that  she  felt  better, 
she  got  up  and  resumed  work. 

Then  Izz  Huett  broke  do^^Ti.  She  had  walked  more  than 
a  dozen  miles  the  previous  evening,  had  gone  to  bed  at 
midnight  well-nigh  supperless,  and  had  risen  again  at  five 
o'clock.  Marian  alone,  thanks  to  the  bottle  of  hquor  and 
her  stoutness  of  build,  stood  the  strain  upon  back  and  arms 
without  suffering.  Tess  urged  Izz  to  leave  off,  agreeing,  as 
she  felt  better,  to  finish  the  day  without  her,  and  make 
equal  division  of  the  number  of  sheaves. 

Izz  accepted  the  offer  gratefully,  and  disappeared  through 
the  great  door  into  the  snowy  track  to  her  lodging.  Marian, 
as  was  the  case  every  afternoon  at  this  time,  on  account  of 
the  bottle  she  had  emptied,  began  to  feel  in  a  romantic  vein. 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  it  of  him — never !  "  she  said 
in  a  dreamv  tone.  "And  I  loved  him  so  !  I  didn't  mind  his 
lia^dng  you.     But  this  about  Izz  is  too  bad !  '^ 

Tess,  in  her  start  at  the  words,  narrowly  missed  cutting 
off  a  finger  with  the  bill-hook. 

"  Is  it  about  my  husband  ? "  she  stammered. 

"  Well,  yes.  Izz  said,  ^  Don't  'ee  tell  her ' ;  but  I  am  sm*e 
I  can't  help  it !  It  was  what  he  wanted  Izz  to  do.  He 
wanted  her  to  go  off  to  Brazil  with  him." 

Tess's  face  faded  as  white  as  the  scene  without,  and  its 
curves  straightened,    "And  did  Izz  refuse  to  go  ? "  she  asked. 


336  TESS   OF   THE    D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  I  don't  know.     Anyhow,  he  changed  his  mind." 

'-Pooh — then  he  didn't  mean  it!  'Twas  just  a  man's 
jest ! " 

''  Yes,  he  did ;  for  he  drove  her  a  good  way  towards  the 
station." 

''  Anyhow,  he  didn't  take  her  !  " 

They  pulled  on  in  silence  till  Tess,  without  any  premoni- 
tory symptoms,  bm^st  out  crying. 

"  There  !  "  said  Marian.     ''  Now  I  wish  I  hadn't  told  'ee  !  " 

"  No.  It  is  a  very  good  thing  that  you  have  done  !  I 
have  been  livmg  on  in  a  thirtover,  lackadaisical  way,  and 
have  not  seen  Avhat  it  may  lead  to  !  I  ought  to  have  sent 
him  a  letter  oftener.  He  said  I  coidd  not  go  to  him,  but 
he  didn't  say  I  was  not  to  write  as  often  as  I  hked.  I  won't 
stay  like  this  any  longer !  I  have  been  very  wrong  and 
neglectful  in  leaving  everything  to  be  done  by  him !  " 

The  dim  light  in  the  barn  grew  dimmer,  and  they  could 
see  to  work  no  longer.  When  Tess  had  reached  home  that 
evening,  and  had  entered  into  the  privacy  of  her  httle 
whitewashed  chamber,  she  began  impetuously  "VNTiting  a 
letter  to  Clare.  But  faUing  into  doubt,  she  could  not  finish 
it.  Afterwards  she  took  the  ring  from  the  ribbon  on  which 
she  wore  it  next  her  heart,  and  retained  it  on  her  finger  all 
night,  as  if  to  fortify  herself  in  the  sensation  that  she  was 
really  the  wife  of  this  elusive  lover  of  hers,  who  could  pro- 
pose that  Izz  should  go  with  him  abroad,  so  shortly  after  he 
had  left  her.  Knowing  that,  how  could  she  wiite  entreaties 
to  him,  or  show  that  she  cared  for  him  any  more  f 


XLIV. 


By  the  disclosure  in  the  barn  her  thoughts  were  led  anew 
in  the  direction  which  they  had  taken  more  than  once  of 
late — to  the  distant  Emminster  Vicarage.     It  was  thi'ough 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  337 

lier  husband's  parents  tliat  she  had  been  charged  to  send  a 
letter  to  Clare  if  she  desu*ed ;  and  to  write  to  them  direct 
if  in  difficulty.  But  that  sense  of  her  having  morally  no 
claim  upon  him  had  always  led  Tess  to  suspend  her  im- 
pulses to  send  these  notes  j  and  to  the  family  at  the  \dcar- 
age,  therefore,  as  to  her  own  parents  since  her  marriage, 
she  was  vu'tuallv  non-existent.  This  self-effacement  in  both 
directions  had  been  quite  in  consonance  with  her  inde- 
pendent character  of  desiring  nothing  b}^  way  of  favor  or 
pity  to  which  she  was  not  entitled  on  a  fair  consideration 
of  her  deserts.  She  wished  to  stand  or  fall  by  her  qualities, 
and  to  waive  such  merely  nominal  claims  upon  a  strange 
family  as  she  had  established  by  the  flimsy  fact  of  a  mem- 
ber of  that  family  having,  in  a  moment  of  impulse,  written 
his  name  in  a  church-book  beside  hers. 

But  now  that  she  was  stung  to  a  fever  by  Izz's  tale  there 
was  a  limit  to  her  powers  of  renunciation.  Wliy  had  her 
husband  not  written  to  her?  He  had  distinctly  imphed 
that  he  would  at  least  let  her  know  of  the  locality-  to  Adiich 
he  had  journeyed  •  but  he  had  not  sent  a  line  to  notify  his 
addi'ess.  Was  he  really  indifferent  ?  But  was  he  ill?  Was 
he  waiting  for  her  to  make  some  advance?  Surely  she 
might  summon  the  courage  of  solicitude,  call  at  the  \dcar- 
age  for  intelligence,  make  herself  known,  and  express  her 
grief  at  his  silence.  If  Angel's  father  were  the  good  man 
she  had  heard  him  represented  to  be,  he  would  be  able  to 
enter  into  her  heart-starved  situation.  Her  social  hard- 
ships she  could  conceal. 

To  leave  the  farm  on  a  week-day  was  not  in  her  power ; 
Sunday  was  the  only  possible  opportunity.  Flintcomb-Ash 
being  in  the  middle  of  the  cretaceous  table-land  over  which 
no  railwav  had  climbed  as  vet,  it  would  be  necessarv  to 
Avalk.  And  the  distance  being  fifteen  miles  each  way  it 
would  be  necessary  to  allow  herself  a  long  day  for  the  un- 
dertaking, b}^  rising  early. 

A  fortnight  later,  when  the  snow  had  gone,  and  had  been 
%% 


338  TESS  OF   THE  D'UKBERVILLES. 

followed  T)y  a  hard,  black  frost,  she  resolved  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  state  of  the  roads  to  try  the  experiment.  At 
thi'ee  o'clock  that  Snnday  morning  she  came  downstairs 
and  stepped  ont  into  the  starlight.  The  weather  was 
still  favorable,  the  gTonnd  ringing  nnder  her  feet  like  an 
anvil. 

Marian  and  Izz  were  mnch  interested  in  her  excnrsion, 
knowing  that  the  jom^ney  concerned  her  hnsband.  Their 
lodgings  were  in  a  cottage  a  little  farther  along  the  lane, 
bnt  they  came  and  assisted  Tess  in  her  departnre,  and 
argned  that  she  should  dress  up  in  her  very  prettiest  guise 
to  captivate  the  hearts  of  her  parents-in-laAV ;  though  she, 
knowing  of  the  austere  and  Calvinistic  tenets  of  ohl  Mr. 
Clare,  was  indifferent,  and  even  doubtful.  A  year  had  now 
elapsed  since  her  sad  marriage,  but  she  had  preserved  suf- 
ficient draperies  from  the  WTeck  of  her  then  full  wardrobe 
to  clothe  her  very  charmingly  as  a  sim^^le  country  girl  with 
no  pretensions  to  recent  fashion ;  a  soft  gray  woollen  gown, 
with  white  crape  quilling  against  the  pink  skin  of  her  face 
and  neck,  and  a  black  velvet  jacket  and  hat. 

^'  'Tis  a  thousand  pities  your  husband  can't  see  'ee  now — 
you  do  look  a  real  beauty !  "  said  Izz  Huett,  regarding  Tess 
as  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  between  the  steely  starlight 
without  and  the  yellow  candle-light  within.  Izz  si)oke  with 
a  magnanimous  abandonment  of  herself  to  the  situation ; 
she  could  not  be — no  woman  with  a  heart  bigger  than  a 
hazel-nut  could  be — antagonistic  to  Tess  in  her  presence, 
the  influence  which  she  exercised  over  those  of  her  ovm  sex 
being  of  a  warmth  and  strength  quite  unusual,  curiously 
overpowering  the  less  worthy  feminine  feelings  of  spite 
and  rivah-y. 

With  a  final  tug  and  touch  liere,  and  a  slight  brush  there, 
they  let  her  go ;  and  she  was  absorbed  into  the  pearly  air 
of  tlie  fore-dawn.  They  heard  lier  footsteps  tap  along  the 
hard  road  as  she  stepped  out  to  her  full  pace.  Even  Izz 
hoped  she  would  win,  and,  though  without  any  particular 


THE   WOMAN   PAYS.  339 

res^Dect  for  lier  owni  vii'tiie,  felt  glad  tliat  she  had  been  pre- 
vented wronging  her  friend  when  momentarily  tempted  by 
Clare. 

It  was  a  year  ago,  all  but  a  day,  that  Clare  had  married 
Tess,  and  only  a  few  days  less  than  a  year  that  he  had  been 
absent  from  her.  Still,  to  start  on  a  bidsk  walli,  and  on 
such  an  errand  as  hers,  on  a  diy,  clear  winter  morning, 
through  the  rarefied  air  of  these  chalky  hogs'-backs,  was 
not  depressing ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  her  dream  at 
starting  was  to  win  the  heart  of  her  mother-in-law,  tell  her 
whole  liistoiy  to  that  matron,  enlist  her  on  her  side,  and  so 
gain  back  the  truant. 

She  soon  reached  the  edge  of  the  vast  escarpment  below 
which  stretched  the  wide  and  loamy  Vale  of  Blackmoor, 
Ipng  now  misty  and  still  in  the  dawn.  Instead  of  the 
colorless  air  of  the  uplands,  the  atmosphere  down  there  was 
a  deep  blue.  Instead  of  the  great  enclosures  of  fifty  to  a 
hundi'ed  acres  in  which  she  was  now  accustomed  to  toil, 
there  were  little  fields  below  her  of  less  than  half-a-dozen 
acres,  so  numerous  that  they  looked  from  this  height  like 
the  meshes  of  a  net.  Here  the  landscape  was  whitey-brown ; 
down  there,  as  in  Froom  Valley,  it  was  always  green.  Yet 
it  was  in  that  vale  that  her  sorrow  had  taken  shape,  and 
she  did  not  love  it  as  formerly.  Beauty  to  her,  as  to  all 
who  have  felt,  lay  not  in  the  thing,  but  in  what  the  thing 
symbolized. 

Keeping  the  Vale  on  her  right,  she  steered  steadily  west- 
ward ;  passing  above  the  Hintocks,  crossing  at  right  angles 
the  high-road  from  Sherton-Abbas  to  Casterbridge,  and 
skirting  Dogbury  HiU  and  High-Stoy,  with  the  dell  l^etween 
them  called  "The  Devil's  Kitchen."  Still  following  the 
elevated  way,  she  reached  Cross-in -Hand,  where  the  stone 
pillar  stands  desolate  and  silent,  to  mark  the  site  of  a  mira- 
cle, or  murder,  or  both.  Three  miles  farther  she  cut  across 
the  straight  and  deserted  Roman  road  called  Long-Ash 
Lane ;  leaving  which  as  soon  as  she  reached  it,  she  dipped 


340  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

down  the  hill  by  a  transverse  lane  into  the  small  town  or 
village  of  Evershead,  being  now  about  half-way  over  the 
distance.  She  made  a  halt  here,  and  breakfasted  a  second 
time,  heartily  enough — not  at  the  Sow  and  Acorn,  for  she 
avoided  inns,  but  at  a  cottage  by  the  church. 

The  second  half  of  her  journey  was  through  a  more  gen- 
tle country,  by  way  of  Benvill  Lane.  But  as  the  mileage 
lessened  between  her  and  the  spot  of  her  pilgrimage,  so  did 
Tess's  confidence  decrease,  and  her  enterprise  loom  out  more 
formidably.  She  saw  her  pur]30se  in  such  staring  lines,  and 
the  landscape  so  faintly,  that  she  was  sometimes  in  danger 
of  losing  her  way.  However,  about  noon  she  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  basin  in  which  Emminster  and  its  vicarage  lay. 

Mounting  upon  a  gate  by  the  wayside,  she  sat  there  con- 
templating the  scene.  The  square  tower,  beneath  which 
she  knew  that  at  that  moment  the  vicar  and  his  household 
and  congregation  were  gathered,  had  a  severe  look  in  her 
eyes.  She  wished  that  she  had  somehow  contrived  to  come 
on  a  week-day.  Such  a  good  man  might  be  prejudiced 
against  a  woman  who  had  chosen  Sunday,  never  realizing 
the  necessities  of  her  case.  But  it  was  incumbent  upon  her 
to  go  on  now.  She  took  off  the  thick  boots  in  which  she 
had  walked  thus  far,  put  on  her  pretty  thin  ones  of  j)atent 
leather,  and,  stuffing  the  former  into  the  hedge  where  she 
might  readily  find  them  again,  descended  the  hill ;  the  fresh- 
ness of  color  she  had  derived  from  the  keen  air  thinning 
away  in  spite  of  her  as  she  di'ew  near  the  parsonage. 

Tess  hoped  for  some  accident  that  might  favor  her,  but 
nothing  favored  her.  The  shrubs  on  the  vicarage  lawn 
rustled  nncomf ortabh'  in  the  frosty  breeze ;  she  could  not 
feel,  by  any  stretch  of  imagination,  dressed  to  her  highest 
as  she  was,  that  the  house  was  the  residence  of  near  rela- 
tions; and  yet  nothing  essential,  in  nature  or  emotion, 
divided  her  from  them  :  in  pains,  pleasures,  thoughts,  birth, 
death,  and  after-death,  thev  were  the  same. 

She  nerved  herself  l)y  an  effort,  entered  the  swing- gate, 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS.  341 

and  rang  the  door-bell.  The  thing  was  done  ;  there  could 
be  no  retreat.  No  ;  the  thing  was  not  done.  Nobody  an- 
swered to  her  ringing.  The  effort  had  to  be  risen  to  and 
made  again.  She  rang  a  second  time,  and  the  agitation  of 
the  act,  coupled  with  her  weariness  after  the  fourteen  miles' 
walk,  led  her  to  support  herself  while  she  waited  by  resting 
her  hand  on  her  hi]3,  and  her  elbow  against  the  wall  of  the 
porch.  The  ^dnd  was  so  diying  that  the  ivy-leaves  had 
become  ^dzened  and  gray,  each  tapping  incessantly  upon 
its  neighbor  with  a  disquieting  stu^  of  her  nerves.  A  piece 
of  blood-stained  paper,  caught  up  from  some  meat-buyer's 
dust-heap,  beat  up  and  do^vn  the  road  mthout  the  gate  5 
too  flimsy  to  rest,  too  heavy  to  fly  away  j  and  a  few  straws 
kept  it  company. 

The  second  peal  had  been  louder,  and  still  nobod}'  came. 
Then  she  walked  out  of  the  porch,  opened  the  gate,  and 
passed  tlu'ough.  And  though,  when  she  had  half -closed  it, 
she  retained  it  in  her  hand,  looking  dubiously  at  the  house- 
front  as  if  inclined  to  return,  it  was  with  a  breath  of  relief 
that  she  closed  the  gate.  A  feeling  haunted  her  that  she 
might  have  been  observed,  and  recognized  (though  how  she 
could  not  tell),  and  that  orders  had  been  given  not  to  admit 
her. 

Tess  went  as  far  as  the  corner  mth  a  sense  that  she  had 
done  all  she  could  do ;  but  determined  not  to  escape  present 
trepidation  at  the  expense  of  future  distress,  she  walked 
back  again  quite  past  the  house,  looking  up  at  all  the  win- 
dows. 

Ah — the  explanation  was  that  they  were  all  at  church, 
every  one.  She  remembered  her  husband  saying  that  his 
father  always  insisted  upon  the  household,  servants  in- 
cluded, going  to  morning  service,  and,  as  a  consequence, 
eating  cold  food  when  they  came  home.  It  was  therefore 
only  necessary  to  wait  till  the  service  was  over.  She  would 
not  make  herseK  conspicuous  by  waiting  on  the  spot,  and 
she  started  to  get  past  the  ct^urch  into  the  lane.     But  as 


342  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

she  reached  the  chiu'chyard  gate  the  people  began  pouring 
out,  and  Tess  found  herself  in  the  midst  of  them. 

The  Emminster  congregation  looked  at  her  as  only  the 
congregation  of  small  country  townsfolk  walking  home  at 
its  leisure  can  look  at  a  woman  whom  it  perceives  to  be  a 
stranger.  She  quickened  her  pace,  and  ascended  the  road 
by  which  she  had  come,  to  find  a  retreat  between  its  hedges 
till  the  ^acai^'s  family  should  have  lunched,  and  it  might  be 
convenient  for  them  to  receive  her.  She  soon  distanced  the 
church-goers,  except  two  youngish  men,  who  had  come  out 
in  the  rear  of  the  majority,  and,  linked  arm-in-arm,  were 
beating  up  behind  her  at  a  quick  step. 

As  they  drew  nearer  she  could  hear  theii'  voices  engaged 
in  earnest  discourse,  and,  with  the  natural  quickness  of  a 
woman  in  her  situation,  did  not  fail  to  recognize  in  those 
voices  the  quality  of  her  husband's  tones.  The  pedestrians 
were  his  two  brothers,  obviously.  Forgetting  all  her  plans, 
Tess's  one  dread  was  lest  they  should  overtake  her  now,  in 
her  disorganized  condition,  before  she  was  prepared  to  con^ 
front  them;  for,  though  she  knew  that  they  could  not 
identify  her,  she  instinctively  di'eaded  their  scrutiny.  The 
more  briskly  they  walked  the  more  briskly  walked  she. 
They  were  plainly  bent  upon  taking  a  short,  quick  stroll 
before  going  indoors  to  lunch  or  dinner,  to  restore  warmth 
to  limbs  chilled  mth  sitting  through  a  long  ser^dce. 

Only  one  person  had  preceded  Tess  i\])  the  hill — a  lady- 
like young  woman,  somewhat  interesting,  though,  perhaps, 
a  trifle  guindee  and  prudish.  Tess  had  nearly  overtaken 
her  when  the  speed  of  her  brothers-in-law  brought  them  so 
nearly  behind  her  back  that  she  could  hear  every  word  of 
their  conversation.  They  said  nothing,  however,  which  par- 
ticularly interested  her  till,  observing  the  young  lady  still 
farther  in  front,  one  of  them  remarked,  "There  is  Mercy 
Chant.     Let  us  overtake  her." 

Tess  knew  the  name.  It  was  \he  woman  wlio  had  been 
destined  for  Angel's  life-companion  by  his  and  her  parents, 


THE  W03L\X  PAYS.  343 

and  wlioiii  lie  probably  would  have  married  1>ut  for  her 
intrusive  self.  She  would  have  known  as  much  without 
previous  information  if  she  had  waited  a  moment^  for  one 
of  the  brothers  proceeded  to  say  :  ^^  All !  jDoor  Angel,  poor 
Angel !  I  never  see  that  nice  girl  without  more  and  more 
regretting  Ms  precipitancy  in  throwing  liimseK  away  upon 
a  dairymaid,  or  w^hatever  she  may  be.  It  is  a  queer  busi- 
ness, apparently.  Wliether  she  has  joined  him  yet  or  not 
I  don't  know ;  but  she  had  not  done  so  some  months  ago 
w^heii  I  heard  from  him." 

^'I  can't  say.  He  never  tells  me  anything  nowadays. 
His  ill-considered  marriage  seems  to  have  completed  that 
estrangement  from  me  which  was  begun  by  his  extraordi- 
nary opinions." 

Tess  beat  up  the  long  hill  still  faster  5  but  she  coidd  not 
outwalk  them  without  exciting  notice.  At  last  they  out- 
sped  her  altogether,  and  passed  her  by.  The  young  lady 
still  farther  ahead  heard  their  footsteps  and  turned.  Then 
there  was  a  greeting  and  a  shaking  of  hands,  and  the  three 
went  on  together. 

They  soon  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and,  evidently 
intending  this  point  to  be  the  limit  of  their  promenade, 
they  slackened  pace  and  turned  all  three  aside  to  the 
gate  whereon  Tess  had  paused  an  hour  before  that  time  to 
reconnoitre  the  town  before  descending  the  hill.  During 
their  discourse  one  of  the  clerical  brothers  probed  the  hedge 
carefully  with  his  umbrella,  and   dragged   something   to 

light. 

"  Here's  a  pair  of  old  boots,''  he  said.  ''  Thrown  away,  I 
suppose,  by  some  tramp  or  other." 

"  Some  impostor  who  wished  to  come  into  the  town  bare- 
foot, perhaps,  and  so  excite  our  sympathies,"  said  Miss 
Chant.  "Yes,  it  must  have  been,  for  they  are  excellent 
walking-boots — by  no  means  worn  out.  What  a  wicked 
thing  to  do  !     I'll  carry  them  home  for  some  poor  person." 

Outhbert    Clare,  who  had   been  the  one  to  find  them, 


344  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

picked  them  up  for  lier  with  the  crook  of  his  stick ;    and 
Tess's  boots  were  appropriated. 

She,  who  had  heard  this,  walked  past  under  the  screen  of 
her  woollen  veil,  till,  presently  looking  back,  she  perceived 
that  the  chui'ch  23arty  had  left  the  gate  with  her  boots  and 
retreated  down  the  hill. 

Thereupon  our  heroine  resumed  her  walk.  Tears,  blind- 
ing tears,  were  running  down  her  face.  She  knew  that  it 
was  all  sentiment,  all  baseless  impressibihty,  which  had 
caused  her  to  read  the  scene  as  her  own  condemnation ; 
nevertheless,  she  could  not  get  over  it ;  she  could  not  con- 
travene in  her  own  defenceless  person  all  these  untoward 
omens.  It  was  impossible  to  think  of  returning  to  the 
vicarage.  Angel's  wife  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  been 
hounded  up  that  hill  like  a  scorned  thing  by  those — to  her 
— superfine  clerics.  Innocently  as  the  slight  had  been 
inflicted,  it  was  somewhat  unfortunate  that  she  had  encoun- 
tered the  sons  and  not  the  father,  who,  despite  his  narrow- 
ness, was  far  less  starched  and  ii'oned  than  they,  and  had 
to  the  full  the  gift  of  charity.  As  she  again  thought  of  her 
dusty  boots,  she  almost  pitied  those  habiliments  for  the 
quizzing  to  which  they  had  been  subjected,  and  felt  how 
hopeless  life  was  for  their  owner. 

^'  Ah !  "  she  said,  still  weeping  in  pity  of  herself,  '^  they 
didn't  know  that  I  wore  those  over  the  roughest  part  of  the 
road  to  save  these  pretty  ones  he  bought  for  me — no — they 
did  not  know  it !  And  they  didn't  think  that  he  chose 
the  color  o'  my  pretty  frock — no — how  could  they  ?  If  they 
had  known  perhaps  they  would  not  have  cared,  for  they 
don't  care  much  for  him,  poor  thing !  " 

Then  she  wept  for  the  beloved  man  whose  conventional 
standard  of  judgment  had  caused  her  aU  these  latter  sor- 
rows; and  she  went  her  way  without  knowing  that  the 
greatest  misfortune  of  her  life  was  this  feminine  loss  of 
courage  at  the  last  and  critical  moment  through  her  esti- 
mating her  father-in-law  by  his  sons.     Her  present  con- 


THE  WO]MAN  PAYS.  345 

ditioii  was  precisely  one  wliicli  would  have  enlisted  tlie 
sympatliies  of  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clare.  Theii*  hearts  went 
out  of  them  at  a  bound  towards  extreme  cases,  when  the 
subtle  mental  troubles  of  the  less  desperate  among  man- 
kind failed  to  win  their  interest  or  regard.  In  jumping 
at  Publicans  and  Sinners  they  would  forget  that  a  word 
might  be  said  for  the  worries  of  Scribes  and  Pharisees; 
and  this  defect  or  limitation  might  have  recommended  their 
own  daughter-in-law  to  them  at  this  moment  as  a  fairly 
choice  sort  of  lost  person  for  their  love. 

Thereupon  she  began  to  plod  back  along  the  road  by 
which  she  had  come  not  altogether  full  of  hope,  but  fidl  of 
a  con^dction  that  a  crisis  in  her  life  was  approaching.  No 
crisis,  apparenth',  had  come ;  and  there  was  nothing  left 
for  her  to  do  but  to  continue  for  the  remainder  of  the  win- 
ter upon  that  starve-acre  farm.  She  did,  indeed,  take  suf- 
ficient interest  in  herself  to  throw  up  her  veil  on  this  retui*n 
journey,  as  if  to  let  the  world  see  that  she  could  at  least  ex- 
hibit a  face  such  as  Mercy  Chant  could  not  show.  But  it 
was  done  with  a  sorry  shake  of  the  head.  ^'  It  is  nothing — 
it  is  notliing!"  she  said.  '' Nobody  loves  it;  nobody  sees 
it.     Wlio  cares  about  the  looks  of  a  castaway  like  me ! '' 

Her  journey  back  was  rather  a  meander  than  a  march. 
It  had  no  sprightliness ;  no  purj^ose ;  only  a  tendency. 
Along  the  tedious  length  of  Benvill  Lane  she  began  to 
grow  tu-ed,  and  she  leaned  upon  gates  and  paused  by  mile- 
stones. 

She  did  not  enter  any  house  till,  at  the  seventh  or  eighth 
mile,  she  descended  the  steep  long  hill  below  wliich  lay  the 
village  or  townlet  of  Evershead,  where  in  the  morning  she 
had  breakfasted  with  such  contrasting  expectations.  The 
cottage  by  the  church,  in  which  she  again  sat  do"v\Ti,  was 
almost  the  fii'st  at  that  end  of  the  village,  and  while  the 
woman  fetched  her  some  milk  from  the  pantry,  Tess,  look- 
ing down  the  street,  perceived  that  the  place  seemed  quite 
deserted. 


346  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBER\^LLES. 

"  The  people  are  gone  to  afternoon  service,  I  suppose  ? " 
she  said. 

''No,  mv  dear/'  said  the  old  woman.  "'Tis  too  soon  for 
that ;  the  bells  haint  strook  out  yet.  They  be  all  gone  to 
hear  the  preacliing  in  Spring  Barn.  A  ranter  preaches 
there  between  the  services — a  excellent,  fiery,  Christian 
man,  they  say.  But,  Lord,  I  don't  go  to  heai-'n !  "  What 
comes  in  the  regular  way  over  the  pulpit  is  hot  enough 
for  I." 

Tess  soon  went  onward  into  the  village,  her  footsteps 
echoing  against  the  houses  as  though  it  were  a  place  of  the 
dead.  Nearing  the  central  part,  her  echoes  were  intruded 
on  by  other  sounds;  and  seeing  the  barn  before  her,  she 
guessed  these  to  be  the  utterances  of  the  preacher. 

His  voice  became  so  distinct  in  the  still,  clear  air,  that 
she  could  soon  catch  his  sentences,  though  she  was  on  the 
closed  side  of  the  barn.  The  sermon,  as  might  be  expected, 
was  the  extremest  antinomian  type;  on  justification  by 
faith,  as  expounded  in  the  theology  of  St.  Paul.  This  fixed 
idea  of  the  rhapsodist  was  delivered  with  animated  enthusi- 
asm, in  a  manner  entirely  declamatory,  for  he  had  plainly 
no  skill  as  a  dialectician.  Although  Tess  had  not  heard  the 
beginning  of  the  address,  she  learned  what  the  text  had 
been  from  its  constant  iteration : 

"  0  foolish  Galatians,  ivlio  JiafJi  heivitclied  you,  tliai  ye 
should  not  obey  the  truth,  before  ivhose  eyes  Jesus  Christ  hatJt 
been  evidently  set  forth,  crucified  among  you  f  " 

Tess  was  all  the  more  interested,  as  she  stood  Hstening 
behin^l,  in  finding  that  the  preachei^s  doctrine  was  a  vehe- 
ment form  of  the  views  of  Angel's  father,  and  her  interest 
intensified  when  the  speaker  began  to  detail  his  own  sj^ir- 
itual  experiences  of  how  he  had  come  by  those  views.  He 
had, he  said, been  the  greatest  of  sinners.  He  had  scoffed; 
he  bad  wantonlv  associated  with  the  reckless  and  the  lewd. 
But  a  day  of  awakening  had  come,  and,  in  a  human  sense, 
it  had  been  brought  about  mainly  by  the  influence  of  a 


THE  WO^IAN  PAYS.  347 

certain  clergyman,  whom  lie  liad  at  fii'st  grossly  insulted  j 
but  Avhose  parting  words  had  sunk  into  his  heart,  and  had 
remained  there,  till  by  the  grace  of  Heaven  they  had  worked 
this  change  in  him,  and  made  him  what  they  saw  him. 

But  more  startling  to  Tess  than  the  doctrine  had  been 
the  voice,  wliich,  impossible  as  it  seemed,  had  been  precisely 
like  that  of  Alec  D'Urber\alle.  Her  face  fixed  in  painful 
suspense,  she  came  round  to  the  front  of  the  barn,  and 
passed  before  it.  The  low  winter  sun  shone  directly  upon 
the  great  double-doored  entrance  on  this  side ;  one  of  the 
doors  being  open,  so  that  the  rays  stretched  far  in  over  the 
threshing-floor  to  the  preacher  and  his  audience,  all  snugly 
sheltered  from  the  northern  breeze.  The  listeners  were  en- 
tirely villagers,  among  them  being  the  man  whom  she  had 
seen  carrying  the  paint-pot  on  a  former  memorable  occasion. 
But  her  attention  was  given  to  the  central  figui'e,  who  stood 
upon  some  sacks  of  corn,  facing  the  people  and  the  door. 
The  thi'ee  o'clock  sun  shone  full  upon  him,  and  the  strange 
enervating  conviction  that  her  seducer  confronted  her, 
which  had  been  gaining  ground  in  Tess  ever  since  she  had 
heard  his  words  distinctl}^,  was  at  last  established  as  a  fact 
indeed. 


THE   CONVERT. 


XLY. 

Till  this  moment  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  from 
D'Urberville  since  her  departure  from  Trantridge. 

The  rencounter  came  at  a  hea\y  moment,  which  of  all 
moments  was  calculated  to  permit  its  impact  with  the  least 
emotional  shock.  But  such  was  the  influence  of  unreason- 
ing memory  that,  though  he  stood  there  openly  and  palpably 
a  converted  man,  who  was  sorrowing  for  his  past  irregular- 
ities, a  sense  of  fear  overcame  her,  paralyzing  her  movement 
so  that  she  neither  retreated  nor  advanced. 

To  think  of  what  emanated  from  that  countenance  when 
she  saw  it  last,  and  to  behold  it  now ! 

There  was  the  same  handsome  unpleasantness  of  mien, 
but  now  he  wore  dark,  neatlv  trimmed,  old-fashioned  whis- 
kers,  the  sable  mustache  having  disappeared ;  and  his  dress 
was  half -clerical ;  a  modification  which  had  changed  his 
expression  sufficiently  to  abstract  the  dandyism  from  his 
features,  and  to  hinder  for  a  second  her  belief  in  his  identity. 

To  Tess's  sense  there  was,  just  at  first,  a  ghastly  bi- 
zarrerie,  a  grim  incongruity,  in  the  march  of  these  solemn 
words  of  Scripture  out  of  such  a  mouth.  This  too-familiar 
intonation,  less  than  four  years  earlier,  had  brought  to  her 
ears  expressions  of  such  divergent  purpose  that  her  heart 
became  quite  sick  at  the  mere  irony  of  the  contrast.  Yet 
he  was  in  earnest,  unmistakably. 


THK  PREACHER  WAS  ALEC  D  URBERVILLE. 


THE  CONVERT.  349 

It  was  less  a  reform  tlian  a  transfiguration.  The  former 
curves  of  sensnousness  were  now  modulated  to  lines  of  de- 
votional passion.  The  lip-shapes  that  had  meant  seductive- 
ness were  now  made  to  express  divine  supplication ;  the 
glow  on  the  cheek  that  yesterday  could  be  translated  as 
riotousness  was  evangelized  to-day  into  the  splendor  of 
pious  enthusiasm ;  animalism  had  become  fanaticism  ;  Pa- 
ganism, Paulinism ;  the  bold,  rolling  eye  that  had  flashed 
upon  her  shrinking  form  in  the  old  time  with  such  gross  mas- 
tery now  beamed  with  the  rude  energy  of  a  theolatry  that 
was  almost  ferocious.  Those  hard,  black  angularities  which 
his  face  had  used  to  put  on  when  his  wishes  were  thwarted 
by  her  modesty  now  did  duty  in  picturing  the  incorrigil)le 
backslider  who  would  insist  upon  tiu-ning  again  to  his  wal- 
lowing in  the  mire. 

The  lineaments,  as  such,  seemed  to  complain.  They  had 
been  diverted  from  theii*  hereditary  connotation  to  signify 
impressions  for  which  nature  did  not  intend  them.  Strange 
that  their  very  elevation  was  a  misapplication,  that  to  raise 
seemed  to  falsify. 

Yet  could  it  be  so?  Was  she  not  wrong  in  this?  She 
would  admit  the  ungenerous  sentiment  no  longer.  D'Ur- 
berville  was  not  the  fii'st  wicked  man  who  had  turned  away 
from  his  wickedness  to  save  liis  soul  alive,  and  why  should 
she  deem  it  unnatural  in  him  ?  It  was  but  the  usage  of 
thought  which  had  been  jarred  in  her  at  hearing  good  new 
words  in  bad  old  notes.  The  greater  the  sinner  the  greater 
the  saint ;  it  was  not  necessary  to  dive  far  into  Christian 
history  to  discover  that. 

Such  impressions  as  these  moved  her  vaguely,  and  mth- 
out  strict  deflniteness.  As  soon  as  the  nerveless  pause  of 
her  surprise  would  allow  her  to  stir,  her  impulse  was  to  pass 
on  out  of  his  sight.  He  had  obviously  not  discerned  her 
yet  in  her  position  against  the  sun.  But  the  moment  that 
she  moved  again  he  recognized  her. 

The  effect  upon  her  old  lover  was  electric,  far  stronger 


350  TESS   OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

than  the  effect  of  his  presence  npon  her.  His  fire,  the 
tumnltnons  ring  of  his  eloquence,  seemed  to  go  out  of  him. 
His  lip  struggled  and  trembled  under  the  words  that  lay 
upon  it ;  but  deliver  them  it  could  not  as  long  as  she  faced 
him.  His  eyes,  after  their  first  glance  upon  her  face,  hung 
determinedly  in  every  other  direction  but  hers,  but  came 
back  in  a  desperate  leap  ever}-  few  seconds.  This  paralysis 
lasted,  however,  but  a  short  time ;  for  Tess's  energies  re- 
tiumed  with  the  atrophy  of  liis,  and  she  walked  as  fast  as 
she  could  do  past  the  barn  and  onward. 

As  soon  as  she  could  reflect  it  appalled  her,  this  change 
in  their  relative  platforms.  ,  He  who  had  wrought  her  un- 
doing was  now  on  the  side  of  the  Spmt,  while  she  remained 
unregenerate ;  and,  as  in  the  legend,  it  had  resulted  that 
her  Cyx^rian  image  had  suddenly  appeared  u]3on  his  altar, 
and  the  fii'e  of  the  priest  had  been  well-nigh  extinguished. 

She  went  on  without  turning  her  head.  Her  back  seemed 
to  be  endowed  with  a  sensitiveness  to  ocular  beams — even 
her  clothing — so  alive  was  she  to  a  fancied  gaze  which 
might  be  resting  upon  her  from  the  outside  of  that  barn. 
All  the  way  along  to  this  point  her  heart  had  been  heavy 
with  an  inactive  sorrow;  now  there  was  a  change  in  the 
quality  of  its  troul)le.  That  hunger  for  affection  too  long 
withheld  was  for  the  time  displaced  by  an  almost  physical 
sense  of  an  implacable  past  which  still  engu-dled  her.  It 
intensified  her  consciousness  of  error  to  a  practical  despair ; 
the  break  of  continuity  between  her  past  and  present  exist- 
ence, which  she  had  hoped  for,  had  not,  after  all,  taken 
place.  Bygones  would  never  be  complete  bygones  tiU  she 
was  a  bygone  herself. 

Thus  absorbed,  she  recrossed  the  northern  half  of  Long- 
Ash  Lane  at  right  angles,  and  presently  saw  before  her  the 
road  ascending  whitely  to  the  upland  along  whose  margin 
the  remainder  of  her  journey  lay.  Its  dry,  pale  surface 
stretched  severely  onward,  unbroken  by  a  single  figure, 
vehicle,  or  mark,  save  some  occasional  horse-drop])ings  which 


THE   CONVERT.  351 

dotted  its  cold  aridity  here  and  there.  While  sh:>wly  breast- 
ing this  ascent  Tess  became  conscious  of  footsteps  behind 
her,  andj  turning  quickly,  she  saw  approaching  that  well- 
known  form,  so  strangely  accoutred  as  a  minister — the  one 
personage  in  all  the  world  she  wished  not  to  encounter  alone 
on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

There  was  not  much  time,  however,  for  thought  or  elusion, 
and  she  yielded  as  calndy  as  she  could  to  the  necessity  of 
letting  him  overtake  her.  She  saw  that  he  was  excited, 
less  by  the  speed  of  his  walk  than  by  the  feelings  within 
him. 

^'  Tess  !  "  he  said. 

She  slackened  speed  without  looking  round. 

"  Tess !  "  he  repeated.     ''  It  is  I— ^Vlec  !  " 

She  then  looked  back  at  him,  and  he  came  up.  ^^  I  see  it 
is,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

"  Well — is  that  all !  Yet  I  deserve  no  more.  Of  course," 
he  added,  with  a  slight  laugh,  ^Hhere  is  sometliing  of  the 
ridiculous  to  your  eyes  in  seeing  me  like  this.  But — I 
must  put  up  with  that.  ...  I  heard  you  had  gone  away, 
nobod}"  knew  where.  Tess,  do  you  wonder  why  I  have  fol- 
lowed you  1 " 

"  I  do,  rather ;  and  I  would  that  you  had  not,  with  all 
my  heart !  " 

"Yes — you  may  well  say  it,"  he  returned,  gravely,  as 
the}'  moved  onward  together,  she  with  unwilling  tread. 
"  But  don't  mistake  me ;  and  I  ask  this  because  you  may 
have  been  led  to  do  so  in  noticing — if  you  did  notice  it — 
how  your  sudden  appearance  unnerved  me  down  there.  It 
was  but  a  momentary  spasm ;  and  considering  what  you 
had  been  to  me,  it  Avas  natural  enough.  But  Heaven 
helped  me  through  it — though  perhaps  you  think  me  a 
humbug  for  sajdng  it — and  immediately  afterwards  I  felt 
that,  of  all  persons  in  the  world  whom  it  was  my  duty  and 
desire  to  save  from  the  wrath  to  come — sneer  if  you  like — 
the  woman  whom  I  had  so  grievously  wronged  was  that 


352  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERATLLES. 

person.  I  have  come  with  that  sole  purpose  in  view — 
nothing  more." 

There  was  the  smallest  vein  of  scorn  in  her  words  of 
rejoinder :  ^'  Have  yon  saved  yourself  ?  Charity  begins  at 
home,  they  say." 

''  I  have  done  nothing  !  "  said  he,  impetuously.  "  Heaven, 
as  I  have  been  telling  my  hearers,  has  done  all.  No  amount 
of  contempt  that  you  can  poiu'  upon  me,  Tess,  will  equal 
what  I  have  poured  upon  myself — the  old  Adam  of  my 
former  years.  Well,  it  is  a  strange  story  5  believe  it  or  not. 
But  I  can  tell  you  the  means  by  w^hich  my  conversion  w^as 
brought  about,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  interested  enough  in 
me  to  listen.  Have  you  ever  heard  the  name  of  the  parson 
of  Emminster — you  must  have  done  so  ? — old  Mr.  Clare ; 
one  of  the  most  earnest  of  his  school ;  one  of  the  few  in- 
tense men  left  in  the  Church ;  not  so  intense  as  the  ex- 
treme wing  of  Christian  believers  to  which  I  belong,  but 
quite  an  exception  among  the  established  clergy,  the  younger 
of  whom  are  gradually  attenuating  the  true  doctrines  by 
their  sophistries,  till  they  are  but  the  shadow  of  what  they 
were.  He  is  one  who,  I  firmly  believe,  has  been  the  humble 
means  of  sa^dng  more  souls  in  this  country  than  any  other 
man  you  can  name.     You  have  heard  of  him  f " 

''  I  have,"  she  said. 

"  He  came  to  Trantridge  two  or  three  years  ago  to  preach 
on  behalf  of  some  missionarv  societv ;  and  I,  wretched  fel- 
low  that  I  was,  insulted  him  when,  in  his  disinterestedness, 
he  tried  to  reason  with  me  and  show  me  the  wav.  He  did 
not  resent  m}'-  conduct,  he  simply  said  that  some  day  I 
should  receive  the  first-fruits  of  the  Si)irit — that  those  who 
came  to  scoff  sometimes  remained  to  pray.  There  was  a 
strange  magic  in  his  words.  They  sank  into  my  mind, 
though  I  did  not  know  it  at  the  time,  nor  did  he ;  and  by 
degrees  I  was  brought  to  the  light.  Since  then  my  one  de- 
sire has  been  to  hand  on  the  good  news  to  others,  and  that 
is  what  I  w^as  trying  to  do  to-day  5  though  it  is  only  lately 


THE  CONVERT.  353 

that  I  have  preached  hereabout :  the  first  months  of  my 
ministry  have  been  spent  in  the  North  of  England  among 
strangers,  where  I  preferred  to  make  my  earhest  clnmsy 
attempts,  so  as  to  acquire  courage  before  undergoing  that 
severest  of  all  tests  of  one's  sincerity,  addressing  those  who 
have  known  one,  and  have  been  one's  companions  in  the 
days  of  darkness.  If  you  could  only  know,  Tess,  the  sense 
of  secui'ity,  the  certainty,  you  would,  I  am  siu'e " 

"  Don't  go  on  with  it ! "  she  cried,  passionately,  as  she 
turned  away  from  him  to  a  stile  by  the  wayside,  on  which 
she  bowed  her  face.  "I  can't  believe  in  such  sudden 
things !  I  feel  indignant  with  you  for  talking  to  me  like 
this,  when  you  know — when  you  know  what  harm  you've 
done  me  !  You,  and  those  Hke  you,  take  your  fill  of  pleasure 
on  earth  by  making  the  life  of  such  as  me  bitter  and  black 
with  sorrow  j  and  then  it  is  a  fine  thing,  when  you  have 
had  enough  of  that,  to  think  of  securing  your  pleasure  in 
heaven  hj  becoming  converted.  Out  upon  such — I  don't 
iDclieve  in  vou — I  hate  it !  " 

^^  Tess,"  he  insisted ;  "  don't  speak  so  !  It  came  to  me 
like  a  shining  light !  And  you  don't  believe  me  ?  What 
don't  vou  beheve?" 

"  Your  conversion." 

U  Why  f  " 

She  di'opped  her  voice.  '^  Because  a  better  man  than  you 
does  not  believe  in  such." 

^'  What  a  woman's  reason  !     Who  is  this  better  man  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  vou." 

"Well,"  he  declared,  a  resentment  beneath  his  words 
seeming  ready  to  spring  out  at  a  moment's  notice ;  "  God 
forbid  that  I  should  say  I  am  a  good  man — and  you  know 
I  don't  say  any  such  thing.  I  am  new  to  goodness,  truly  5 
but  new-comers  see  farthest  sometimes." 

''  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  But  I  cannot  believe  in  your  con- 

vei'sion  to  a  new  spirit.     Such  flashes  as  you  feel,  Alec,  I 

fear  don't  last !  " 
2a 


354  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Thus  speaking,  she  turned  from  the  stile  over  which  she 
had  been  leaning,  and  faced  him ;  whereupon  his  eyes,  fall- 
ing accidentally  upon  the  familiar  countenance  and  form, 
remained  contemplating  her.  The  inferior  man  was  cer- 
tainly quiet  in  him  now ;  but  it  was  surely  not  extracted, 
nor  even  entirely  subdued. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  like  that !  "  he  said,  abruptly. 

Tess,  who  had  been  quite  unconscious  of  her  action  and 
mien,  instantly  withdrew^  the  large,  dark  gaze  of  her  eyes, 
stammering,  with  a  flush,  "  I  beg  yoiu-  pardon."  And  there 
was  revived  in  her  the  wi'etched  sentiment  which  had  often 
come  to  her  before,  that  in  inhabiting  the  fleshy  tal^ernacle 
with  which  natm-e  had  endowed  her  she  was  somehow  doing 
wrong. 

"  No,  no.  Don't  beg  nn^  pardon.  But  since  you  wear  a 
veil  to  hide  your  good  looks,  why  don't  you  keep  it  down  f " 

She  pulled  down  the  veil,  saying  hastily,  '^  It  was  to  keep 
off  the  wind." 

"  It  may  seem  harsh  and  imperious  of  me  to  dictate  hke 
this,"  he  went  on.  ''  But  it  is  better  that  I  should  not  look 
too  often  on  j^ou.     It  might  be  dangerous  for  both." 

"  Ssh  !  "  said  Tess. 

''Well,  women's  faces  have  had  too  much  power  over  me 
already  for  me  not  to  fear  them.  An  evangelist  has  nothing 
to  do  with  such  as  that  j  and  it  reminds  me  of  the  old  times 
that  I  would  forget." 

After  this  their  conversation  dwindled  to  a  casual  renipa-k 
now  and  then  as  they  rambled  onward,  Tess  inwardly 
w^ondering  how  far  he  w^as  going  with  her,  and  not  liking 
to  send  him  back  b}-  positive  mandate.  Frequently  when 
they  came  to  a  gate  or  stile  they  found  painted  thereon  in 
red  letters  some  text  of  Scripture,  and  she  asked  him  if  he 
knew  who  had  been  at  the  pains  to  blazon  these  announce- 
ments. He  told  her  that  the  man  was  employed  by  him- 
self and  others  who  were  working  with  him  in  that  district, 
to  paint  these  i-eminders,  that  no  means  might  be  left  un- 


THE   CONVERT.  355 

tried  wliicli  might  move  the  hearts  of  a  wicked  genera- 
tion. 

At  length  the  road  touched  the  spot  called  "  Cross-in- 
Hand."  Of  all  spots  on  this  bleached  and  desolate  upland 
this  was  the  most  forlorn.  It  was  so  far  removed  from  the 
charm  which  is  sought  in  landscape  by  artists  and  \dew- 
seekers  as  to  reach  a  new  kind  of  beauty,  a  negative  beauty 
of  tragical  blankness.  The  place  took  its  name  from  a 
stone  pillar  which  stood  there,  a  strange,  rude  monolith, 
from  a  stratum  unknown  in  any  local  quarry,  on  which 
was  rudely  carved  a  human  hand.  Differing  accounts 
were  given  of  its  history  and  purport.  Some  authorities 
stated  that  a  devotional  cross  had  once  formed  the  complete 
erection  there,  of  which  the  present  relic  was  but  the  stump ; 
others  tliat  the  stone  as  it  stood  was  entii-e,  and  that  it  had 
been  placed  there  to  mark  a  boundary  or  a  place  of  meet- 
ing. Anyhow,  whatever  the  origin  of  the  relic,  there  was 
and  is  something  sinister,  or  solemn,  according  to  mood, 
in  the  scene  amid  which  it  stands ;  something  tending  to 
impress  the  most  phlegmatic  passer-by. 

''  I  think  I  must  leave  you  now,"  he  remarked,  as  they 
drev/  near  to  this  place.  "I  have  to  preach  at  Abbot's 
Cernel  at  six  this  evening,  and  my  way  lies  across  to  the 
right  from  here.  And  you  upset  me  somewhat  too,  Tessie 
— I  cannot,  wUl  not,  say  why.  I  must  go  away  and  get 
strength.  .  .  .  How  is  it  that  you  speak  so  fluently  now? 
^Vho  has  taught  you  such  good  Enghsh  ? " 

^'  I  have  learnt  things  in  my  troubles,"  she  said,  evasively. 

"  What  troubles  have  you  had  f " 

She  told  him  of  the  fii'st  one — the  onlv  one  that  related 
to  him. 

D'Urber\dlle  was  struck  mute.  "  I  knew  nothing  of  this 
till  now!"  he  murmured.  "Wby  didn't  you  write  to  me 
when  you  felt  your  trouble  coming  on  ? " 

She  did  not  reply,  and  he  broke  the  silence  by  adding, 
^'  Well — you  will  see  me  again." 


356  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  Do  not  again  come  near  me  !  " 

''I  will  tliink.  But  before  we  part,  come  here."  He 
stepped  np  to  the  pillar.  "  This  was  once  a  Holy  Cross. 
ReUcs  are  not  in  my  creed ;  but  I  fear  you  at  moments — 
far  more  than  you  need  fear  me  5  and  to  lessen  my  fear^ 
put  your  hand  upon  that  stone  hand,  and  swear  that  you 
will  never  tempt  me — by  your  charms  or  w^ays." 

"  Good  God — how  can  you  ask  what  is  so  unnecessary ! 
All  that  is  furthest  from  my  thought !  " 

^' Yes — ^but  swear  it,  swear  it !  "  he  pleaded. 

Tess,  half  frightened,  gave  way  to  his  importunity,  placed 
her  hand  upon  the  stone  and  swore. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  not  a  believer,"  he  continued; 
'nhat  some  unl^eliever  should  have  got  hold  of  you  and 
unsettled  your  mind.  But  no  more  now.  At  home  at 
least  I  can  pray  for  you ;  and  I  will ;  and  who  knows  what 
may  not  happen "?     I'm  off.     Good-by !  " 

He  turned  to  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  and  without  letting  his 
eyes  again  rest  upon  her,  leaped  over,  and  struck  out  across 
the  down  in  the  du^ection  of  Abbot's  Cernel.  As  he  walked 
his  pace  showed  perturbation,  and  by  and  by,  as  if  instigated 
by  a  bracing  thought,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small 
Bible,  between  the  leaves  of  which  was  folded  a  letter,  worn 
and  soiled,  as  from  much  re-reading.  D'Urberville  opened 
the  letter.  It  was  dated  several  months  before  this  time, 
and  was  signed  by  Parson  Clare. 

Tlie  letter  began  ))y  expressing  the  winter's  unfeigned 
joy  at  D'UrberviUe's  conversion,  and  thanked  him  for  his 
kindness  in  communicating  with  the  parson  on  the  subject. 
It  expressed  Mr.  Clare's  warm  assurance  of  forgiveness  for 
D'UrberviUe's  former  conduct,  and  his  interest  in  the  young 
man's  plans  for  the  future.  He,  Mr.  Clare,  would  much 
have  liked  to  see  D'Urberville  in  the  Church  to  whose  min- 
istry he  had  devoted  so  many  years  of  his  own  life,  and 
would  have  helped  him  to  enter  a  theological  college  to  that 
end ;  but  since  his  correspondent  had  not  cared  to  do  this 


THE  CONVERT.  357 

oil  account  of  tlie  delay  it  would  have  entailed,  he  was  not 
the  man  to  insist  upon  its  paramount  importance.  Every 
man  must  Avork  as  he  could  best  work,  and  in  the  method 
towards  which  he  felt  unpelled  by  the  Spii*it. 

D'Urberville  read  and  re-read  this  letter,  and  seemed  to 
fortify  himself  thereby.  He  also  read  some  passages  from 
his  Bible  as  he  walked;  till  his  face  assumed  a  calm,  and 
apparently  the  image  of  Tess  no  longer  troubled  his  mind. 

She  meanwhile  had  kej^t  along  the  edge  of  the  hill  by 
which  lay  her  nearest  way  home.  Within  this  distance  of 
a  mile  she  met  a  solitary  shepherd. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  that  old  stone  I  have  passed? " 
she  asked  of  him.     "  Was  it  ever  a  Holv  Cross  ? " 

'^  Cross — no ;  'twere  not  a  cross  !  'Tis  a  thing  of  ill-omen, 
miss.  It  was  put  up  in  wuld  times  by  the  relations  of  a 
malefactor  who  was  tortured  there  by  nailing  his  hand  to 
a  post,  and  afterwards  hung.  The  bones  he  underneath. 
They  say  he  sold  his  soul  to  the  devil,  and  that  he  walks  at 
times." 

She  felt  the  petite  mort  at  the  unexpectedly  gruesome 
information,  and  left  the  solitary  man  behind  her.  It  was 
dusk  when  she  drew  near  to  Flintcomb-Ash,  and  in  the  lane 
at  the  entrance  to  the  hamlet  she  approached  a  girl  and 
her  lover  without  their  observing  her.  They  were  talking 
no  secrets,  and  the  clear,  unconcerned  voice  of  the  young 
woman,  in  response  to  the  warmer  accents  of  the  man, 
spread  into  the  chilly  air  as  the  one  soothing  thing  within 
the  dusky  horizon,  f  idl  of  a  stagnant  obscimty  upon  which 
nothing  else  intruded.  For  a  moment  the  voices  cheered 
the  heart  of  Tess,  till  she  reasoned  that  this  interview  had 
its  origin,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  in  the  same  attraction 
which  had  been  the  prelude  to  her  owti  tribulation.  When 
she  came  close  the  girl  turned  serenely  and  recognized  her, 
the  young  man  walking  off  in  embarrassment.  The  woman 
was  Izz  Huett,  whose  interest  in  Tess's  excursion  immedi- 
ately superseded  her  own  proceedings.     Tess  did  not  ex- 


358  TESS   OF   THE   DXTRBERTILLES. 

plain  very  clearly  its  results,  and  Izz,  who  was  a  girl  of  tact, 
began  to  speak  of  her  own  little  affair,  a  phase  of  which 
Tess  had  just  witnessed. 

"  He  is  Amby  Seedling,  the  chap  who  used  to  sometimes 
come  and  help  at  Talbothays,"  she  explained,  indifferently. 
"  He  actually  inquired  and  found  out  that  I  had  come  here, 
and  has  followed  me.  He  says  he's  been  in  love  wi'  me 
these  two  year.     But  I've  hardly  answered  him." 


XLVI. 

Se\^ral  days  had  passed  since  her  futile  journey,  and 
Tess  was  afield.  The  dry  winter  wind  still  blew,  but  a 
screen  of  thatched  hurdles  erected  in  the  eye  of  the  blast 
kept  its  force  away  from  her.  On  this  sheltered  side  was  a 
turnip-slicing  machine,  whose  bright  blue  hue  of  new  j^aint 
seemed  almost  vocal  in  the  othermse  colorless  scene.  Oj)- 
posite  its  front  was  a  long  mound  or  '•  grave,"  in  which  the 
roots  had  been  preserved  since  early  winter.  Tess  was 
standing  at  the  uncovered  end,  chopping  off  with  a  bill- 
hook the  fibres  and  earth  from  each  root,  and  throwing  it 
after  the  operation  into  the  slicer.  A  man  was  turning  the 
handle  of  the  machine,  and  from  its  trough  came  the  newly 
cut  swedes,  the  fresh  smell  of  whose  yellow  chips  was  ac- 
companied by  the  sounds  of  the  snuffling  wind,  the  smart 
swish  of  the  slicing-blades,  and  the  choppings  of  the  hook 
in  Tess's  leather-gloved  hand. 

The  wide  acreage  of  blank  agricultural  brownness,  ap- 
parent where  the  swedes  had  been  pulled,  was  beginning  to 
be  striped  in  wales  of  darker  broAvn,  gradually  broadening 
to  ribands.  Along  the  edge  of  each  of  these  something 
crept  upon  ten  legs,  moving  without  haste  and  without  rest 
up  and  down  the  whole  length  of  the  field;  eight  of  the 


THE   CO^m]RT.  359 

legs  being  tliose  of  horses,  two  those  of  the  man,  the  plow 
going  between  them,  turning  up  the  cleared  gromid  for  a 
spring  sowing. 

For  hours  nothing  reheved  the  Joyless  monotony  of 
things.  Then,  far  beyond  the  ploughing-teams,  a  black 
speck  was  seen.  It  had  come  from  the  corner  of  a  fence, 
where  there  was  a  gap,  and  its  tendency  was  up  the  incline, 
towards  the  swede-cutters.  From  the  proportions  of  a  mere 
point,  it  advanced  to  the  shape  of  a  ninepiu,  and  could 
soon  be  perceived  to  be  a  man  in  black,  arriving  from  the 
direction  of  Flintcomb-Ash.  The  man  at  the  slicer,  ha^dng 
nothing  else  to  do  with  his  eyes,  continually  observed  the 
comer,  l)ut  Tess,  who  was  occupied,  did  not  perceive  him 
till  he  was  quite  near,  when  her  companion  directed  her  at- 
tention to  his  approach. 

It  was  not  her  hard  taskmaster.  Farmer  Groby  5  it  was 
one  in  a  semi-cleric  costume,  who  now  represented  what  had 
once  been  the  dare-devil  Alec  D'Urberville.  He  had  e\d- 
dentl}^  been  hoping  to  find  her  there  alone,  and  the  sight  of 
the  grinder  seemed  to  embarrass  him.  Not  being  caught 
in  the  midst  of  his  preaching,  there  was  less  enthusiasm 
about  him  now.  A  pale  distress  was  already  on  Tess's  face, 
and  she  pulled  her  curtained  hood  further  over  it.  D'Ur- 
berville came  up  and  said  quietly,  '^  I  want  to  speak  to  you, 
Tess 


r.    ?? 


"You  have  refused  my  last  request,"  said  she,  "not  to 


come  near  me." 


"  Yes,  but  I  have  a  good  reason." 

"  Well,  tell  it." 

"It  is  more  serious  than  you  may  think."  He  glanced 
round  to  see  if  he  were  overheard.  They  were  at  some 
distance  from  the  man  who  turned  the  slicer,  and  the  move- 
ment of  the  machine,  too,  sufficiently  prevented  Alec's  words 
reaching  other  ears.  However,  D'Urber\dlle  placed  himself 
so  as  to  screen  Tess  from  the  laborer,  turning  his  back  to 
the  latter.     "It   is   this,"  he   continued,   with   impetuous 


300  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

gravity :  "in  thinking  of  your  soul  and  mine  wlien  we  last 
met,  I  neglected  to  inquii*e  as  to  youi*  worldly  condition. 
You  were  well  dressed,  and  I  did  not  tliink  of  it.  But  I 
see  now  that  it  is  hard — harder  than  it  used  to  be  when  I — 
knew  you — harder  than  you  deserve.  Perhaps  a  good  deal 
of  it  is  owing  to  me." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  there  they  stood,  he  watching 
her  inquiringly,  she,  with  bent  head,  her  face  completely 
screened  by  the  hood,  resuming  her  trimming  of  the  swedes. 
By  going  on  with  her  work  she  felt  better  able  to  keep  him 
outside  her  emotions. 

"  Tess,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh  that  verged  on  a  cry, 
"yours  was  the  very  worst  case  I  ever  was  concerned  in. 
Wretch  that  I  was  to  foul  that  innocent  life !  The  whole 
blame  was  mine — the  whole  blackness  of  the  sin,  the  awful, 
awful  iniquity.  You,  too,  the  real  blood  of  which  I  am  but 
the  imitation,  what  a  blind  young  thing  you  were  as  to 
possibilities !  I  say  in  all  earnestness  that  it  is  a  sinful 
shame  for  parents  to  bring  up  their  girls  in  such  dangerous 
ignorance  of  the  gins  and  nets  that  the  wicked  may  set  for 
them,  whether  their  motive  be  a  good  one  or  the  result  of 
simple  indifference." 

Tess  still  did  no  more  than  listen,  tin-owing  doT\"n  one 
globular  root  and  taking  another  with  automatic  regular- 
ity, the  pensive  contour  of  the  mere  field-woman  alone 
marking  her. 

"  But  it  is  not  that  I  came  to  say,"  D'UrberviUe  went  on. 
"  My  cu'cumstances  are  these.  I  have  lost  my  mother  since 
you  were  at  Trantridge,  and  the  place  is  my  own.  But  I 
intend  to  sell  it,  and  devote  myself  to  missionary  work  in 
Africa,  either  as  an  ordained  deacon  or  as  an  outside  worker 
— I  care  very  little  which.  Now,  what  I  want  to  ask  you  is, 
will  you  put  it  in  my  power  to  do  my  duty — to  make  the 
only  reparation  I  can  make  for  the  wrong  I  did  you :  that 
is,  will  you  be  my  wife,  and  go  with  me  ?  I  have  already 
obtained  this  to  save  time."     He  drew  a  piece  of  parch- 


THE  CONVERT.  3C1 

iiieut  from  his  pocket,  with  a  slight  fumbling  of  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  she. 

"  A  marriage  license." 

''  Oh  no,  su' — no  !  "  she  said,  quickly. 

"  You  will  not  ?  Why  is  that  ? ''  And  as  he  asked  the 
question  a  strange  Avretcliedness,  which  was  not  entirely 
the  wi'etchedness  of  thwarted  duty,  crossed  D'Urberyille's 
face.  It  was  unmistakably  a  symptom  that  something  of 
his  old  passion  for  her  had  been  reyiyed ;  duty  and  desire 
ran  hand-in-hand.  "  Surely,"  he  began  again,  in  more  im- 
petuous tones,  and  then  looked  round  at  the  laborer  who 
turned  the  slicer. 

Tess,  too,  felt  that  the  argument  could  not  be  ended 
there.  Informing  the  man  that  a  friend  had  come  to  see 
her,  with  whom  she  wished  to  walk  a  little  way,  she  moyed 
off  \vitli  D'Urberyille  across  the  zebra-striped  field.  When 
they  reached  the  first  newly  ploughed  section  he  hekl  out 
his  hand  to  help  her  over  it;  but  she  stepped  forward  on 
the  summits  of  the  earth-rolls  as  if  she  did  not  see  him. 

"  You  will  not  marry  me,  Tess  ? "  he  repeated,  as  soon  as 
they  were  over  the  fm-rows. 

"  I  cannot." 

"  But  why  ? " 

"  I  have  no  affection  for  you." 

"  But  you  would  get  to  feel  that  in  time,  perhaps — as 
soon  as  you  really  could  forgive  me  f " 

''  Never !  " 

'^  Why  so  positive  ?  " 

''  I  love  somebody  else." 

The  words  seemed  to  astonish  him.  "  You  do  ? "  he  said. 
'■'■  Somebody  else  ?  But  has  not  a  sense  of  what  is  morally 
right  and  proper  any  weight  with  you  ? " 

"  No,  no,  no — don't  say  that !  " 

"Anyhow,  then,  yom'  love  for  this  other  man  may  be 
only  a  passing  feeling  which  you  wiU  overcome " 


3G2  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

^'  No — no  ;  for  ...  I  have  married  him." 

'^  All ! "  he  exchiimed  5  and  he  stopped  dead  and  gazed 
at  her. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  tell — I  did  not  mean  to  ! ''  she  went 
on,  rapidly.  "  It  is  a  secret  here,  or  at  any  rate  but  dimly 
known.  So  will  you,  please  will  you,  keep  from  questioning 
me  ?    You  must  remember  that  we  are  now  strangers." 

"  Strangers — are  we  ?  Strangers  !  "  For  a  moment  a 
flash  of  his  old  irony  marked  his  face  ;  but  he  determinedly 
chastened  it  down.  "Is  that  man  your  husband F'  he 
asked,  mechanically,  denoting  by  a  sign  the  laborer  who 
turned  the  machine. 

"  That  man  !  "  she  said,  proudly.    "  I  should  tliink  not !  " 

"  Who  then  "l " 

"  Do  not  ask  what  I  do  not  wish  to  tell ! "  she  begged, 
and  in  her  eagerness  flashed  an  appeal  to  him  from  her  up- 
turned face  and  lash-shadowed  eyes. 

D'Urberville  was  disturbed.  "  But  I  only  asked  for  your 
sake ! "  he  pleadly,  hotly.  "  Thunder  of  heaven,  I  came 
here,  I  swear,  as  I  thought  for  your  good.  Tess — don't  look 
at  me  so — I  cannot  stand  your  looks !  There  never  were 
such  eyes,  surely,  before  Christianity  or  since !  There — I 
won't  lose  my  head ;  I  dare  not.  I  own  that  the  sight  of 
you  has  revived  my  love  for  you,  which,  I  believed,  was 
extinguished  wdth  aU.  such  feelings.  But  I  thought  that 
our  marriage  might  be  a  sanctification  for  us  both.  '  The 
unbelieving  husband  is  sanctified  by  the  wife,  and  the  un- 
believing Avife  is  sanctified  by  the  husband,'  I  said  to  my- 
self. But  my  plan  is  prevented ;  and  I  must  bear  the  dis- 
appointment." He  reflected  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 
"  Married — married  !  Well,  that  being  so,"  he  added,  quite 
calmly,  tearing  the  license  slowly  into  halves,  and  putting 
them  in  his  pocket ;  "  that  being  prevented,  I  should  like 
to  do  some  good  to  you  and  your  husband,  whoever  he 
may  be.     There  are  many  questions  that  I  am  tempted  to 


THE  COm^RT.  363 

ask,  but  I  will  not  do  so,  of  course,  iu  opposition  to  your 
wishes.  Tlioug'li,  if  I  could  know  your  husband,  I  might 
more  easily  benefit  him  and  you.     Is  he  on  this  farm  ? " 

"  No,"  she  murmured.     '^  He  is  far  away.'^ 

"  Far  aw^ay  1  From  you  f  What  sort  of  husband  can 
he  be!" 

"  O,  do  not  speak  against  him  !    It  was  through  you " 

"  Ah,  is  it  so  ?  .  .  .  That's  bad,  Tess  !  " 

''Yes." 

"  But  to  stay  away  from  you — to  leave  you  to  work  like 
this ! " 

"  He  does  not  leave  me  to  work ! "  she  cried,  springing 
to  the  defence  of  the  absent  one  wdth  aU  her  fervor.  "  He 
don't  know  it.     It  is  by  my  own  arrangement." 

"  Then,  does  he  write  ? " 

"I — I  cannot  teU  you.  There  are  things  which  are 
private  to  ourselves." 

''  Of  coui'se  that  means  that  he  does  not.  You  are  a  de- 
serted ^^df  e,  my  poor  Tess  !  "  In  an  impulse,  he  tm-ned  sud- 
denly to  take  her  hand ;  the  buft'-glove  was  on  it,  and  he 
seized  only  the  rough  leather  fingers  which  did  not  express 
the  life  or  shape  of  those  within. 

"  You  must  not — you  must  not !  "  she  cried,  fearfully, 
slipping  her  hand  from  the  glove  as  from  a  pocket,  and 
lea^'ing  it  in  his  grasp.  "O,  mil  you  go  away — for  the 
sake  of  me — my  husband — go,  in  the  name  of  your  own 
Christianity !  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  will,"  he  said,  hastily,  and  thrusting  the 
glove  back  to  her  turned  to  leave.  Facing  round,  however, 
he  said,  '^  Tess,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  meant  no  sin  in  tak- 
ing your  hand !  " 

A  pattering  of  hoofs  on  the  soil  of  the  field,  which  they 
had  not  noticed  in  their  preoccupation,  ceased  close  behind 
them ;  and  a  voice  reached  her  ear :  "  What  the  devil  are 
ye  doing  away  from  your  work  at  this  time  o'  day  ? " 


3G4  TESS  OF  THE  DTTRBERVILLES. 

Farmer  Groliy  had  espied  the  two  figures  from  the  dis- 
tance, and  had  inquisitively  ridden  across,  to  learn  what 
was  theii"  bnsiness  in  his  field. 

''  Don't  speak  like  that  to  her ! "  said  D'Urberville,  his 
face  blackening-  mth  something  that  was  not  Christianity. 

"  Indeed,  Mister  !  And  what  mid  Methodist  pa'sons  have 
to  do  with  she  ? " 

"^^^10  is  the  fellow?"  asked  D'Urberville,  tm-ning  to 
Tess. 

She  went  close  np  to  him.  "  Go — I  do  beg  yon !  "  she 
said. 

"What?  And  leave  yon  to  that  t^Tant?  I  can  see  in 
his  face  what  a  chnrl  he  is." 

^'He  won't  hnrt  me.  He's  not  in  love  with  me.  I  can 
leave  at  Lady-Day." 

"Well,  I  have  no  right  but  to  obey,  I  suppose.  But — 
well,  good-by," 

Her  defender,  whom  she  dreaded  more  than  her  assailant, 
ha\dng  reluctantly  disappeared,  the  farmer  continued  his 
reprimand,  wliich  Tess  took  with  the  greatness  coolness, 
that  sort  of  attack  being  independent  of  sex.  To  have 
as  a  master  this  man  of  stone,  who  would  have  cuffed  her 
if  he  had  dared,  was  almost  a  relief,  after  her  former  ex- 
periences. She  silently  walked  back  towards  the  summit 
of  the  field  that  was  the  scene  of  her  labor,  so  absorbed  in 
the  inter\dew  which  had  just  taken  place  that  she  was  hardly 
aware  that  the  nose  of  Grobv's  horse  almost  touched  her 
shoulders.  "  If  so  be  you  make  an  agreement  to  work  for 
me  till  Lady-Day,  I'll  see  that  you  carry  it  out,"  he  growled. 
"  'Od  rot  the  women — now  'tis  one  thing,  and  then  'tis  an- 
other !     But  I'll  put  up  with  it  no  longer !  " 

Knowing  very  well  that  he  did  not  harass  the  other 
women  of  the  farm  as  he  harassed  her,  out  of  spite  for  the 
flooring  lie  had  once  received,  she  did  for  one  moment  pic- 
ture what  might  have  been  the  result  if  she  had  been  free 
to  accept  the  offer  just  made  to  her^  of  being  Alec's  wife. 


THE  CONVERT.  365 

It  would  liave  lifted  lier  comj^letely  out  of  subjection,  not 
onh'  to  lier  oppressive  emplo^'er,  but  to  a  wliole  world  who 
seemed  to  despise  her.  "  But  no,  no  I ''  she  said,  breath- 
lessly. ^'  I  could  not  have  married  him  now.  He  is  so  un- 
pleasant to  me !  " 

That  very  night  she  began  an  appeahng  letter  to  Clare, 
concealing  from  liim  her  hardshiiDs,  and  assuring  him  of 
her  undying  affection.  Any  one  who  had  been  in  a  position 
to  read  between  the  lines  would  have  seen  that  at  the  back 
of  her  great  love  was  some  monstrous  fear — almost  a  des- 
peration— as  to  some  secret  cii'cumstances  which  were  not 
disclosed.  But  again  she  did  not  finish  her  effusion :  he 
had  asked  Izz  to  go  with  him,  and  perhaps  he  did  not  care 
for  her  at  all.  She  put  the  letter  in  her  box,  and  wondered 
if  it  would  ever  reach  Angel's  hands. 

After  this  her  daily  tasks  were  gone  tlu'ough  hea\Tly 
enough,  and  brought  on  the  day  which  was  of  great  import 
to  agriculturists — the  day  of  the  Candlemas  Fail'.  It  was 
at  this  fail*  that  new  engagements  were  entered  into  for  the 
twelve  months  following  the  ensuing  Lady-Day,  and  those 
of  the  farming  population  who  thought  of  changing  their 
phices  duly  attended  at  the  county-to^\ni  where  the  fau*  was 
held.  Nearlv  all  the  laborers  on  Flintcomb-Ash  Farm  in- 
tended  flight,  and  early  in  the  morning  there  was  a  general 
exodus  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  which  lav  at  a  distance 
of  from  ten  to  a  dozen  miles  over  hillv  countrv.  Though 
Tess  also  meant  to  leave  at  the  quarter-day,  she  was  one  of 
the  few  who  did  not  go  to  the  fair,  ha\dng  a  vaguely  shaped 
hope  that  something  would  happen  to  render  another  out- 
door engagement  unnecessary. 

It  was  a  peaceful  February  day,  of  wonderfid  softness 
for  the  time,  and  one  would  almost  have  thought  that  win- 
ter was  over.  She  had  hardlv  finished  her  dinner  when 
D'Urberville's  fio-ure  darkened  the  windows  of  the  cottao-e 
wherein  she  was  a  lodger^  which  she  had  all  to  herself  to- 
day. 


366  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Tess  instantly  jiunped  up,  but  her  visitor  had  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  she  could  hardly  in  reason  run  away. 
D'Urberville's  knock,  his  walk  uj^  to  the  door,  had  some  in- 
describable quality  of  diJBference  from  his  air  when  she  last 
saw  him.  They  seemed  to  be  performed  as  acts  of  which 
the  doer  is  ashamed.  At  first  she  thought  that  she  would 
not  open  the  door;  but,  as  there  was  no  sense  in  that 
either,  she  arose,  and,  having  lifted  the  latch,  stepped  back 
quickl}^  He  came  in,  saw  her  before  him,  and  flung  him- 
self down  in  a  chair  before  speaking. 

"  Tess — I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  began,  desperately,  as  he 
wiped  his  heated  face,  which  had  also  a  superimposed  flush 
of  excitement.  ^'  I  felt  that  I  must  call  to  at  least  ask  how 
you  are.  I  assui'e  you  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  you  at 
all  till  I  saw  you  that  Sunday :  now  I  cannot  get  rid  of  your 
image,  try  how  I  may !  It  is  hard  that  a  good  woman 
should  do  harm  to  a  bad  man  ;  yet  so  it  is.  If  you  w^ould 
only  pray  for  me,  Tess  !  " 

The  distraction  of  his  manner  was  almost  pitiable,  and 
yet  Tess  did  not  pity  him.  ''  How  can  I  pray  for  you,"  she 
said,  "  when  I  am  forbidden  to  beheve  that  the  great  Power 
who  moves  the  world  would  alter  His  ]3lans  on  my  account  ? " 

''  You  reaUy  think  that  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  cured  of  the  presumption  of  think- 
ing otherwise." 

^' Cured?     By  whom?" 

"  By  my  husband,  if  I  must  tell." 

''Ah — your  husband — your  husband.  How  strange  it 
seems !  I  remember  you  hinted  something  of  the  sort  the 
other  day.  What  do  you  really  believe  in  these  matters, 
Tess?"  he  asked.  "You  seem  to  have  no  religion — per- 
haps owing  to  me." 

''  But  I  have." 

D'Urberville  looked  at  her  with  misgiving.  "Do  you 
think  that  the  line  T  take  is  aU  wrong?" 

"  A  good  deal  of  it." 


THE  COm'ERT.  367 

"  H'm— and  yet  I've  felt  so  sure  about  it,"  he  said,  un- 
easily. 

'^  I  believe  in  the  spirit  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and 

so  did  my  dear  husband.     But  I  don't  beUeve "     Here 

she  gave  her  negations. 

"  The  fact  is/'  said  D'Urberville,  dryly,  "  whatever  your 
dear  husband  beheved  you  accept,  and  whatever  he  re- 
jected you  reject,  without  the  least  inquiiy  or  reasoning 
on  your  own  part.  That's  just  hke  you  women.  Your 
mind  is  enslaved  to  his." 

"  Ah,  because  he  knew  everything ! "  said  she,  with  a 
triumphant  simplicity  of  faith  in  Angel  Clare  that  the 
most  perfect  man  could  hardly  have  deserved,  much  less 
her  husband. 

^'  Yes,  but  you  should  not  take  opinions  wholesale  from 
another  person  hke  that.  A  pretty  fellow  he  must  be,  to 
teach  you  such  scepticism  !  " 

''  He  never  forced  my  judgment !  He  would  never  argue 
on  the  subject  wi'  me.  But  I  looked  at  it  in  this  way; 
what  he  believed,  after  inquuing  deep  into  doctrines,  was 
much  more  likely  to  be  right  than  what  I  might  believe, 
who  hadn't  looked  into  the  doctrines  at  all." 

^' What  used  he  to  say?    He  must  have  said  something." 

She  reflected ;  and  with  her  acute  memory  for  the  letter 
of  Angel  Clare's  remarks,  even  when  she  did  not  compre- 
hend their  spirit,  she  recalled  a  merciless  polemical  syllo- 
gism that  she  had  heard  him  use  when,  as  it  occasionally 
happened,  he  indulged  in  a  species  of  thinking  aloud  with 
her  at  his  side.  In  delivering  it  she  gave  also  Clare's  accent 
and  manner  with  reverential  fidelitv. 

'^  Say  that  again,"  asked  D'Urber\TlLe,  who  had  hstened 
with  the  greatest  attention. 

She  repeated  the  argument,  and  D'Urberville  murmured 
the  words  after  her,     '^  Anything  else  ? "  he  presently  asked. 

^'  He  said  at  another  time  something  lil^e  this ;  "  and  she 
gave  another,  which  might  possibly  have  been  paralleled 


368  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

in  many  a  work  of  tlie  pedigree  ranging  from  the  Bidion- 
naire  FhilosophiqHe  to  Huxley's  Essays. 

''  Ah — ha !     How  do  you  remember  them  ?  " 
^'- 1  wanted  to  beheve  what  he  believed,  though  he  didn't 
wish  me  to ;  and  I  managed  to  coax  liim  to  tell  me  a  few 
of  his  thoughts.     I  can't  say  I  quite  understand  that  one ; 
but  I  know  it  is  right !  " 

''H'm.     Fancy  your  being  able  to  teach  me  what  you 
don't  knoAv  yourself." 
He  fell  into  thought. 

^^And  so  I  threw  in  my  spiritual  lot  wi'  his/'  she  resumed. 
''  I  didn't  wish  it  to  be  different.  What's  good  enough  for 
him  is  good  enough  for  me." 

''Does  he  know  that  you  are  as  big  an  infidel  as  he?" 
''  No — I  never  told  him — if  I  am  an  infidel." 
''  Well — you  are  better  off  to-day  than  I  am,  Tess,  after 
all.     You  don't  believe  that  you  ought  to  preach  my  doc- 
trine, and,  therefore,  do  no  despite  to  your  conscience  in 
abstaining.     I  do  believe  I  ought  to  preach  it,  but  like  the 
devils  I  beheve  and  treml^le,  for  I  suddenly  leave  off  preach- 
ing it,  and  give  way  to  my  passion  for  you." 
''How?" 

"  Wliy,"  he  said,  wearily,  "I  have  come  all  the  way  here 
to  see  you  to-day.  But  I  started  from  home  to  go  to  Cas- 
terbridge  Fau*,  where  I  have  undertaken  to  preach  the 
Word  from  a  wagon  at  haK-past  two  this  afternoon,  and 
where  all  the  brethren  are  expecting  me  this  minute. 
Here's  the  announcement." 

He  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  a  poster  whereon  was 
printed  the  day,  hour,  and  place  of  meeting,  at  which  he, 
D'Urberville,  would  preach  as  aforesaid. 

"But  how  can  you  get  tliere?"  said  Tess,  looking  at  the 
chx'k. 

"  I  cannot  get  there.     I  have  come  here." 

"  Wliat — you  have  really  arranged  to  preach " 

"  I  have  arranged  to  preach  and  I  shall  not  be  there — by 


THE  CONVERT.  369 

reason  of  my  biu'iiing  desire  to  see  a  woman  whom  I  once 
despised ! — No,  by  my  word  and  truth,  I  never  despised 
you  5  if  I  had  I  should  not  love  you  now.  Why  I  did  not 
despise  you  was  on  account  of  your  intrinsic  puiity  in  spite 
of  all ;  you  withdrew  youi'self  from  me  so  quickly  and  res- 
olutely when  you  saw  the  situation  •  you  did  not  remain 
at  my  pleasure ;  so  there  was  one  victim  in  the  world  for 
whom  I  had  no  contempt,  and  you  are  she.  But  you  may 
well  despise  me  now.  I  thought  I  worshipped  on  the  moun- 
tains, but  I  find  I  still  serve  in  the  groves.     Ha !  ha !  " 

''  O  Alec  D'Urberville !  what  does  this  mean  ?  Wliat  have 
I  done  ? " 

"Done!"  he  said,  with  a  soidless  sneer  at  himself. 
"  Nothing  intentionally.  But  you  have  been  the  means — 
the  innocent  means — of  my  backsliding,  as  they  caU  it.  I 
ask  myself,  am  I,  indeed,  one  of  those  ^  servants  of  corrup- 
tion' who,  ^  after  ^ they  have  escaped  the  pollutions  of  the 
world,  are  again  entangled  therein  and  overcome ' — whose 
latter  end  is  worse  than  their  beginning?"  He  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Tess,  Tess,  I  was  on  the  way  to, 
at  least,  social  salvation  till  I  saw  you  again,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing her  as  if  she  were  a  child,  temper  and  mood  showing 
warm  in  him.  "  And  why,  then,  have  you  tempted  me !  I 
was  fii'ui  as  a  man  could  be  till  I  saw  that  mouth  again — 
surely  there  never  was  such  a  maddening  mouth  since  Eve's." 
His  voice  sank,  and  a  hot  archness  shot  from  his  black  eyes. 
^'  You  temptress,  Tess ;  you  dear  damned  witch  of  Babylon 
— I  coidd  not  resist  you  as  soon  as  I  met  you  again  !  " 

"  I  coiddn't  help  your  seeing  me  again !  "  said  Tess,  re- 
coihng. 

'•  I  know  it — I  repeat  that  I  do  not  blame  you.  But  the 
fact  remains.  Wlien  I  saw  you  ill-used  on  the  farm  that 
day  I  was  nearly  mad  to  think  that  I  had  no  legal  right  to 
protect  you — that  I  coidd  not  have  it ;  whilst  he  who  has  it 
seems  to  neglect  you  utterly." 

''  Don't  speak  against  him — he  is  absent !  "  she  cried;  ex- 

24 


370  TESS  OP  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

citedly.  "Treat  him  honorable — ^lie  has  never  wronged 
you  !  Leave  his  wife,  before  any  scandal  spreads  that  may 
do  grievous  harm  to  his  honest  name ! '' 

"  I  Avill — I  will/'  he  said,  like  a  man  awakening  from  a 
lui'id  dream.  "I  have  broken  my  engagement  to  preach 
the  Gospel  to  those  poor  sinners — it  is  the  fii-st  time  I  have 
done  such  a  monstrous  thing !  A  month  ago  I  should  have 
been  horrified  at  such  a  possibility.  I'll  go  away — to  hide 
— and — ah,  can  I ! — pray."  Then,  suddenly :  "  One  clasp, 
Tessie — one  !     Only  for  old  friendship " 

"  I  am  without  defence,  Alec — a  good  man's  honor  is  in 
my  keeping — think — think !  " 

"  Oh  yes — yes !  My  God  !  "  He  clenched  his  lips,  morti- 
fied with  hhnself  for  his  weakness.  His  eyes  were  equally 
barren  of  amatory  and  religious  hope.  The  corpses  of  those 
old  black  passions  which  had  lain  inanimate  amid  the  lines 
of  Ms  face  ever  since  his  conversion  seemed  to  wake  and 
come  together  as  in  a  resurrection.  He  went  out  indeter- 
minately, hardly  responsil)le  for  his  acts. 

Though  D'Urberville  had  declared  that  this  breach  of  his 
engagement  to-day  was  the  simple  backsliding  of  a  believer, 
Tess's  words,  as  echoed  from  Angel  Clare,  had  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  him,  and  continued  to  do  so  after  he  had 
left  her.  He  moved  on  in  silence,  as  if  his  energies  were 
l)enumbed  by  the  hitherto  undreamt-of  possil-)ility  that  his 
faith  was  vain.  Reason  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  his 
conversion,  and  the  drops  of  logic  that  Tess  had  let  fall  into 
the  sea  of  his  enthusiasm  served  to  chill  its  effervescence 
to  stagnation.  He  said  to  himself,  as  he  pondered  again 
and  again  over  the  crystallized  i)hrases  that  she  had  handed 
on  to  him,  "That  fellow  little  thought  that,  by  telling  her 
those  things,  he  might  be  paving  my  way  back  to  her !  " 


THE  CONVERT.  371 


XLYII. 

It  is  the  threshing  of  the  last  wheat-rick  at  Flintcomb- 
Ash  Farm.  The  dawn  of  tlie  March  morning  is  singularly 
inexpressive,  and  there  is  nothing  to  show  where  the  east- 
ern horizon  lies.  Against  the  twilight  rises  the  trapezoidal 
summit  of  the  stack,  Avhich  has  stood  forlornly  here  through 
the  washing  and  bleaching  of  the  winter  weather. 

Wlien  Izz  Huett  and  Tess  arrived  at  the  scene  of  opera- 
tions only  a  rustling  denoted  that  others  had  preceded 
them ;  to  which,  as  the  light  increased,  there  were  presently 
added  the  silhouettes  of  two  men  on  the  summit. 

They  were  busily  '^  unhahng "  the  rick,  that  is,  stripping 
oif  the  thatch  before  beginning  to  throw  down  the  sheaves ; 
and  while  this  was  in  progress  Izz  and  Tess,  with  the  other 
women-workers,  in  theii'  whitey-brovTi  pinners,  stood  wait- 
ing and  shivering,  Farmer  Groby  having  insisted  upon  their 
being  on  the  spot  thus  early  to  get  the  job  over  if  possible 
by  the  end  of  the  day.  Close  under  the  shadow  of  the 
stack,  and  as  yet  barely  visible,  was  the  red  tyrant  that  the 
women  had  come  to  serve — a  timber-framed  construction, 
with  straps  and  wheels  appertaining — the  thresliing-ma- 
chine,  which,  whilst  it  was  going,  kept  up  a  despotic  de- 
mand upon  the  endurance  of  their  muscles  and  nerves. 

A  little  way  off  there  was  another  indistinct  figaire ;  this 
one  black,  with  a  sustained  hiss  that  spoke  of  strength  very 
much  in  reserve.  The  long  chimney  running  up  beside 
an  ash-tree,  and  the  warmth  which  radiated  from  the  spot, 
explained  Avithout  the  necessity  of  much  daylight  that  here 
was  the  engine  which  was  to  act  as  the  primum  mohUe  of 
tins  little  world.  By  the  engine  stood  a  dark,  motionless 
being,  %  sooty  and  grim}^  embodiment  of  tallness,  in  a  sort 
of  trance,  with  a  heap  of  coals  by  his  side :  it  was  the  engine- 


372  TESS  OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

man.  The  isolation  of  liis  manner  and  color  lent  liim  the 
appearance  of  a  creature  from  Tophet^  who  had  strayed  into 
the  pellucid  smokelessness  of  this  region  of  yelloAv  grain 
and  pale  soil,  with  which  he  had  nothing  in  common,  to 
amaze  and  to  discompose  its  aborigines. 

What  he  looked  he  felt.  He  was  in  the  agricultm-al 
world,  but  not  of  it.  He  served  fire  and  smoke;  these 
denizens  of  the  fields  served  vegetation,  weather,  frost,  and 
sun.  He  travelled  with  this  engine  from  farm  to  farm, 
from  county  to  county,  for  as  yet  the  steam-threshing 
machine  was  itinerant  in  Wessex.  He  spoke  in  a  strange 
northern  accent,  his  thoughts  turned  inwards  ujjon  him- 
self, his  eye  on  his  ii'on  charge,  hardly  perceiving  the  scenes 
around  him,  and  caring  for  them  not  at  all :  holding  only 
strictly  necessary  intercoui'se  with  the  natives,  as  if  some 
ancient  doom  compelled  him  to  wander  here  against  his 
will  in  the  service  of  his  Plutonic  master.  The  long  strap 
which  ran  from  the  di'iving- wheel  of  his  engine  to  the  red 
thresher  under  the  rick  was  the  sole  tie-line  between  agri- 
culture and  him. 

While  they  uncovered  the  sheaves  he  stood  apathetic 
beside  his  portable  repository  of  force,  round  whose  hot 
blaclmess  the  morning  air  quivered.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  with  preparatory  labor.  His  fire  was  waiting  incandes- 
cent, liis  steam  was  at  high  pressure,  in  a  few  seconds  he 
could  make  the  long  strap  move  at  an  invisible  velocity. 
Beyond  its  extent  the  environment  might  be  corn,  straw, 
or  chaos ;  it  was  all  the  same  to  him.  If  any  of  the  native 
idlers  asked  him  what  he  called  himself,  he  replied,  shortly, 
''an  engineer." 

The  rick  was  unhaled  by  full  daylight;  the  men  then 
took  their  places,  the  women  mounted,  and  the  work  began.  ' 
Farmer  Groby — or,  as  they  called  him,  ''  he  " — had  arrived 
ere  this,  and  by  his  orders  Tess  was  placed  on  the  platfoi-m 
of  the  machine,  close  to  the  man  who  fed  it,  her  business 
l)eing  to  untie  every  sheaf  of  corn  handed  on  to  her  by  Izz 


THE  CONVERT.  373 

Hiiett,  who  stood  next,  but  on  the  rick ;  so  that  the  feeder 
could  seize  it  and  spread  it  over  the  revolving  drum  which 
whisked  out  every  grain  in  one  moment. 

They  were  soon  in  full  progress,  after  a  preparatory  hitch 
or  two,  which  rejoiced  the  hearts  of  those  who  hated  ma- 
chinery. The  work  sped  on  till  breakfast-time,  when  the 
thresher  was  stopped  for  half  an  hour;  and  on  starting 
again  after  the  meal  the  whole  supplementaiy  strength  of 
the  farm  was  thrown  into  the  labor  of  constructing  the 
straw-stack,  which  began  to  grow  beside  the  stack  of  corn. 
A  hasty  lunch  was  eaten  as  they  stood,  mthout  leaving  their 
positions,  and  then  another  couple  of  hours  brought  them 
near  to  dinner-time ;  the  inexorable  wheels  continuing  to 
spin,  and  the  penetrating  hum  of  the  thresher  to  thrill  to 
the  very  marrow  all  who  were  near  the  revolving  T\di'e  cage. 

The  old  men  on  the  rising  straw-rick  talked  of  the  past 
davs  when  thev  had  been  accustomed  to  thresh  with  flails 
on  the  oaken  barn  floor  5  when  everything,  even  to  mnnow- 
ing,  was  effected  by  hand  labor,  which,  to  their  thinking, 
though  slow,  produced  better  results.  Those,  too,  on  the 
corn-rick  talked  a  little;  but  the  persi^iring  ones  at  the 
machine,  including  Tess,  could  not  lighten  their  duties  by 
the  exchange  of  many  words.  It  was  the  ceaselessness  of 
the  work  which  tried  her  so  severely,  and  began  to  make 
her  msh  that  she  had  never  come  to  Flintcomb-Ash.  The 
women  on  the  corn-rick — Marian,  who  was  one  of  them,  in 
particular — could  stop  to  drink  ale  or  cold  tea  from  the 
flagon  now  and  then,  or  to  exchange  a  few  gossiping  re- 
marks while  they  wiped  their  faces  or  cleared  the  frag- 
ments of  straw  and  husk  from  their  clothing ;  but  for  Tess 
there  was  no  respite ;  for,  as  the  drum  never  stopped,  the 
man  who  fed  it  could  not  stop,  and  she,  who  had  to  supply 
the  man  with  untied  sheaves,  could  not  stop  either,  except 
at  those  intervals  of  relief  which  were  absolutely  necessary. 

For  some  probably  economical  reason  it  was  usually  a 
woman  who  was  chosen  for  this  particular  duty,  and  Groby 


374  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

gave  as  Lis  motive  in  selecting  Tess  that  she  was  one  of  those 
who  best  combined  strength  with  quickness  in  nntj'ing,  and 
both  with  staying  power,  and  this  may  have  been  true. 
The  hum  of  the  thresher,  which  prevented  speech,  increased 
to  a  raving  whenever  the  suj^ply  of  corn  was  in  excess  of 
the  regular  quantity.  As  Tess  and  the  man  who  fed  could 
never  tmm  their  heads,  she  did  not  know  that  just  before 
the  dinner-hour  a  person  had  come  silently  into  the  field  by 
the  gate,  and  had  been  standing  under  a  second  rick  watch- 
ing the  scene,  and  Tess  in  particular.  He  w^as  in  a  tweed 
suit  of  fashionable  pattern,  and  he  twii'led  a  gay  walking- 
cane. 

"  Who  is  that  ? ''  said  Izz  Huett  to  Marian.  She  had  at 
fii'st  addressed  the  inquiry  to  Tess,  but  the  latter  could  not 
hear  it. 

^'  Somebody's  fancy-man,  I  s'pose,"  said  Marian,  lacon- 
icallv. 

'^  I'll  lay  a  guinea  he's  after  Tess." 

''  Oh  no.  'Tis  a  ranter  pa'son  who's  been  sniffing  after 
her  lately,  not  a  dandy  like  this." 

^'  Well — this  is  the  same  man." 

"  The  same  man  as  the  preacher  ?  But  he's  quite  differ- 
ent." 

''He  hev  left  off  his  black  coat  and  white  neckercher,  and 
hev  cut  off  his  whiskers ;  but  he's  the  same  man  for  all  that." 

"  D'ye  really  think  so  ?     Then  I'll  teU  her,"  said  Marian. 

''  Don't.     She'll  see  him  soon  enough." 

''Well,  I  don't  think  it  at  all  right  for  him  to  join  his 
preaching  to  courting  a  married  woman,  even  though  her 
husband  mid  be  abroad,  and  she,  in  a  sense,  a  widow." 

"  O — he  can  do  her  no  harm,"  said  Izz,  drvlv.  "  Her 
mind  can  no  more  be  heaved  from  that  one  place  where  it 
do  bide  than  a  stooded  wagon  from  the  hole  he's  in.  Lord 
love  'ee,  neither  court-paying,  nor  preaching,  nor  the  seven 
thunders  themselves,  can  wean  a  woman  when  'twould  be 
better  for  her  that  she  should  be  weaned." 


THE  CONVERT.  375 

Dinner- time  came,  and  tlie  whirling  ceased,  wherenpon 
Tess  left  lier  post^  her  knees  trembling  so  wretchedly  with 
the  shaking  of  the  machine  that  she  could  scarcely  walk. 

'^  You  ought  to  het  a  quart  o'  drink  into  'ee,  as  I've  done/' 
said  Marian.  "You  wouldn't  look  so  white  then.  Why, 
souls  above  us,  yom*  face  is  as  if  you'd  been  hag-rode !  " 

It  occurred  to  the  good-natured  Marian  that,  as  Tess  was 
so  tired,  her  discovery  of  her  visitor's  presence  might  have 
the  bad  eifect  of  taking  aw^ay  her  appetite;  and  Marian 
was  thinking  of  inducing  Tess  to  descend  by  a  ladder  on 
the  f mother  side  of  the  stack,  when  the  gentleman  came  for- 
ward and  looked  up. 

Tess  uttered  a  short  little  '^  O ! "  and  a  moment  after 
she  said,  quickly,  "  I  shall  eat  my  dinner  here — right  on  the 
rick." 

Sometimes,  when  they  were  so  far  from  their  cottages, 
they  all  did  this ;  but  as  there  was  rather  a  keen  wind  going 
to-day,  Marian  and  the  rest  descended,  and  sat  under  the 
gTOT\T.ng  stack  of  straw. 

The  new-comer  was,  indeed.  Alec  D'Urberville,  the  late 
EvangeMst,  despite  his  changed  attire  and  aspect.  It  was 
obvious  at  a  glance  that  the  original  WeltJusf  had  come 
back :  that  he  had  restored  himself,  as  nearlv  as  a  man  could 
do  who  had  gTOwn  three  years  older,  to  the  old  jaunty,  slap- 
dash guise  under  which  Tess  had  first  known  her  adndrer, 
and  cousin  so-called.  Having  decided  to  remain  v>^here  she 
was,  Tess  sat  down  among  the  bundles  out  of  sight  on  the 
ground,  and  began  her  meal ;  till,  by  and  by,  she  heard 
footsteps  on  the  ladder,  and  immediately  after  Alec  ap- 
peared upon  the  stack — now  an  oblong  and  level  platform 
of  sheaves.  He  strode  across  them,  and  sat  down  opposite 
to  her  mthout  a  word. 

Tess  continued  to  eat  her  modest  dinner,  a  slice  of  thick 
pancake  which  she  had  brought  with  her.  The  other  work- 
folk were  by  this  time  all  gathered  under  the  rick,  where 
the  loose  straw  formed  a  comfortable  nest. 


376  TESS  OF  THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

^^  I  am  here  again,  as  yon  see/'  at  length  said  D'Urberville. 

''  Why  do  you  tronble  me  so !  "  she  cried,  reproach  flash- 
ing from  her  very  finger-ends. 

"  I  trouble  ijou  f  I  think  I  may  ask,  why  do  you  trouble 
me?" 

^'  Indeed  I  don't  trouble  you  !  " 

"  You  say  you  don't  ?  But  yon  do !  You  haunt  me. 
Those  very  eyes  that  you  turned  upon  me  with  such  a  bitter 
flash  a  moment  ago,  they  come  to  me  just  as  you  showed 
them  then,  in  the  night  and  in  the  day.  Tess,  it  is  just  as 
if  my  emotions,  which  have  been  flowing  in  a  strong  stream 
heavenward,  had  suddenly  found  a  sluice  open  in  the  direc- 
tion of  3^ou,  which  they  have  at  once  gushed  through.  The 
gospel  channel  is  left  diy  forthwith  j  and  it  is  you  who 
have  done  it — you  ! " 

She  gazed  with  parted  lips.  "  Wliat — you  have  given  up 
yom-  preaching  entirely?"  she  asked.  She  had  gathered 
from  Angel  sufficient  of  the  incredulity  of  modern  thought 
to  despise  flash  enthusiasms;  but,  as  the  woman,  she  was 
somewhat  appalled. 

In  affected  lightness  D'Urberville  continued :  "  Entirely. 
I  have  broken  every  engagement  since  that  afternoon  I  was 
to  address  the  drunkards  at  Casterbridge  Fair„  The  deuce 
onlv  knows  what  I  am  thought  of  bv  the  brethren.  Ali-ha  ! 
The  brethren  !  No  doubt  they  pray  for  me — weej)  for  me ; 
for  they  are  kind  people  in  theii-  way.  But  what  do  I  care  ? 
How  could  I  go  on  with  the  thing  when  I  had  lost  my  faith 
— it  would  liave  been  h^-pocrisy  of  the  l)asest  kind  !  Among 
them  I  should  have  stood  like  HvmeutTus  and  Alexander, 
who  were  delivered  over  to  Satan  that  thevniii>lit  learn  not 
to  blasj)lieme.  What  a  grand  revenge  you  have  taken !  I 
saw  vou  innocent,  and  I  deceived  vou.  Four  vears  after 
you  find  me  a  Christian  enthusiast ;  you  then  work  upon 
me,  perhaps  to  my  complete  perdition.  But  Tess,  my  coz, 
as  I  used  to  call  you,  this  is  only  my  way  of  talking,  and 
you  must  not  look  so  horribly  concerned.     Of  course  you 


THE  CONA^ERT.  377 

liave  done  notliing  except  retain  your  pretty  face  and 
shapely  fignre.  I  saw  it  on  the  rick  before  you  saw  me — 
that  tight  pinafore-thing  sets  it  off^  and  that  tilt-bonnet — 
you  field-girls  should  never  wear  those  bonnets  if  you  wish 
to  keep  out  of  danger." 

He  regarded  her  silently  for  a  few  moments,  and,  with  a 
short  cynical  laugh,  resumed :  ''I  beheve  that  if  the  bach- 
elor-apostle, whose  deputy  I  thought  I  was,  had  been 
tempted  l^y  such  a  pretty  face  he  would  have  let  go  the 
plough  for  her  sake  as  I  do." 

Tess  attempted  to  expostulate,  but  at  this  juncture  all  her 
fluency  failed  her,  and  without  heeding  he  added:  ''Well, 
this  Paradise  that  you  supply  is  perhaps  as  good  as  any  * 
other,  after  all.  But  to  speak  seriously,  Tess."  D'Url)er- 
viUe  rose  and  came  nearer,  reclining  sideways  amid  the 
sheaves,  and  resting  upon  his  elbow.  "Since  I  last  saw 
you,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  that  lie  said 
about  religion.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there 
does  seem  rather  a  want  of  common  sense  in  the  propitia- 
tory scheme ;  how  I  could  have  been  so  filled  b}^  poor  old 
Clare's  enthusiasm,  and  have  gone  so  madly  to  work,  trans- 
cending even  him,  I  cannot  make  out.  As  for  what  you 
said  last  time,  on  the  strength  of  your  wonderful  husband's 
intelligence — whose  name  you  have  never  told  me — about 
having  what  they  call  an  ethical  system  without  any  dogma, 
I  don't  see  my  way  to  that  at  all." 

"  Wliy,  you  can  have  the  rehgion  of  loving-kindness  and 
purity  at  least,  if  you  can't  have  more." 

"  Oh  no.  I'm  a  different  sort  of  fellow  from  that !  If 
there's  no  Power  to  say,  '  Do  this,  and  it  will  be  a  good 
thing  for  you  after  you  are  dead ;  do  that,  and  it  will  be  a 
bad  thing  for  you,'  I  can't  warm  up.  Hang  it,  I  am  not 
going  to  feel  responsible  for  my  deeds  and  passions  any 
more,  if  there's  nobody  to  be  responsible  to  5  and  if  I  were 
you,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't  either." 

She  tried  to  argue  and  tell  him  that  he  had  mixed  in  his 


378  TESS  OF  THE   B'URBERVILLES. 

dull  brain  two  distinct  matters,  tlieolog}'  and  morals,  wliicli 
in  the  primitive  days  of  mankind  had  been  quite  distinct, 
and  had  nothing  in  common  bnt  long  association.  But 
owing  to  Angel  Clare's  reticence,  to  her  absolute  want  of 
training  in  polemics,  and  to  her  being  a  vessel  of  emotions 
rather  than  reasons,  she  could  not  get  on. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  he  resumed,  "here  I  am,  my  love, 
as  in  the  old  times  !  " 

"  Not  as  then — never  as  then — it  is  different !  "  she  cried. 
"  And  there  was  never  warmth  with  me.  0,  whv  didn't  vou 
keep  3^our  faith,  if  the  loss  of  it  have  brought  'ee  to  speak 
to  me  hke  this !  " 

"  Because  vou've  knocked  it  out  of  me ;  so  the  e^dl 
be  upon  your  sweet  head.  Your  husband  httle  thought 
how  his  teacliing  woidd  recoil  upon  him !  Ha-ha — I'm 
a^^ully  glad  you  have  made  an  apostate  of  me,  all  the 
same.  Tess,  I  am  more  taken  with  vou  than  ever,  and  I 
pity  you,  too.  For  all  your  closeness,  I  see  you  are  in  a 
bad  way — neglected  by  one  w^ho  ought  to  cherish  you. 
The  words  of  the  stern  prophet  that  I  used  to  read  come 
back  to  me.  Don't  vou  know  them,  Tess  ? — '  And  she  shall 
follow  after  her  lover,  but  she  shall  not  overtake  him ; 
and  she  shaU  seek  him,  but  shall  not  find  him :  then  shall 
she  say,  I  will  go  and  return  to  my  first  husband ;  for  then 
was  it  better  with  me  than  now.' " 

She  could  not  get  her  morsels  of  food  dowm  her  throat ; 
her  Hps  were  dry,  and  she  was  ready  to  choke.  The  voices 
and  laughs  of  the  work-folk  eating  and  drinking  under  the 
rick  came  to  her  as  if  they  were  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off. 

"  It  is  cruelty  to  me  !  "  she  said.  "  How — how  can  you 
treat  me  to  this  talk,  if  vou  care  ever  so  little  for  me  ? " 

"  True,  true,"  he  said,  wincing  a  httle.  "  I  did  not  come 
to  reproach  you  for  my  fall.  I  came,  Tess,  to  say  that  I  don't 
like  you  to  be  Avorking  like  this,  and  I  have  come  on  pur- 
pose for  yoii.  You  say  you  have  a  husband  who  is  not  I. 
"Well,  perhaps  you  have ;  but  I've  never  seen  him,  and  you've 


THE  CONA^ERT.  379 

not  told  me  Ids  name ;  and  altogether  he  seems  rather  a 
mythological  personage.  However,  even  if  you  have  one,  I 
think  I  am  nearer  to  you  than  he  is.  I,  at  any  rate,  try  to 
help  you  out  of  trouble,  but  he  does  not,  bless  his  invisible 
face !  Tess,  my  trap  is  waiting  just  under  the  hill,  and — 
darhno'  mine,  not  his  ! — vou  know  the  rest." 

Her  face  had  been  rising  to  a  dull  crimson  fii*e  wliile  he 
spoke ;  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  You  have  been  the  cause  of  my  backshding,"  he  con- 
tinued, stretching  his  arms  towards  her  waist.  "You 
should  be  willing  to  share  it,  and  leave  that  mule  you  call 
husband  forever." 

One  of  her  leather  gloves,  which  she  had  taken  off  to  eat 
her  skimmer-cake,  lay  in  her  lap,  and  without  the  slightest 
warning  she  passionately  swung  the  glove  by  the  gauntlet 
directly  in  his  face.  It  was  heavy  and  thick  as  a  warrior's, 
and  it  struck  him  flat  on  the  mouth.  Fancy  might  have 
regarded  the  act  as  the  recrudescence  of  a  trick  in  which 
her  mailed  progenitors  were  not  unpractised.  Alec  fiercely 
started  up  from  liis  reclining  position ;  a  scarlet  oozing 
appeared  where  her  blow  had  alighted,  and  in  a  moment 
the  blood  began  dropping  from  his  mouth  upon  the  straw. 
But  he  soon  controlled  himself,  cahnlv  drew  his  handker- 
chief  from  his  pocket,  and  mopped  his  bleeding  lips. 

She  too  had  sprung  up,  but  she  sank  dowTi  again. 

"  Now  punish  me  !  "  she  said,  turning  up  her  eyes  to  his 
with  the  hopeless  defiance  of  the  sparrow's  gaze  before  its 
captor  twdsts  its  neck.  "'  Whip  me,  crush  me ;  you  need  not 
mind  those  people  under  the  rick.  I  shall  not  cry  out. 
Once  victim,  alwavs  victim — that's  the  law." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  Tess,"  he  said,  blandly.  "  I  can  make  full  al- 
lowance for  this.  Yet  you  most  unjustly  forget  one  thing, 
that  I  would  have  married  vou  if  vou  had  not  put  it  out  of 
my  power  to  do  so.  Did  I  not  ask  you  flatly  to  be  my  wife 
— hey  ?     Answer  me." 

"  You  did." 


380  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

"And  you  cannot  be.  But  remember  one  thing."  His 
voice  hardened  as  his  temper  got  the  better  of  him  with  the 
recollection  of  his  sincerity  in  asking  her  and  her  present 
ingratitude,  and  he  stepped  across  to  her  side  and  held  her 
by  the  shoulders,  so  that  she  shook  under  his  gi^asp.  "  Re- 
member, my  lady,  I  was  once  your  master.  I  will  be  your 
master  again.     If  you  are  any  man's  wife  you  are  mine  !  " 

The  threshers  now  began  to  stir  below.  "  So  much  for 
our  quarrel,"  he  said,  letting  her  go.  "Now  I  shall  leave 
you,  and  shall  come  again  for  your  answer  during  the 
afternoon.     You  don't  know  me  yet.     But  I  know  you.'' 

She  had  not  spoken  again,  remaining  as  if  stunned. 
D'Urlierville  retreated  over  the  sheaves,  and  descended  the 
ladder,  while  the  workers  l^elow  rose  and  stretched  their 
arms,  and  shook  down  the  beer  they  had  drunk.  Then  the 
threshing-macliine  started  afresh ;  and  amid  the  renew^ed 
rustle  of  the  straw  Tess  resumed  her  position  by  the  buzz- 
ing drum,  untying  sheaf  after  sheaf  in  endless  succession. 


XLYIII. 

In  the  afternoon  the  farmer  made  it  known  that  the  rick 
was  to  be  finished  that  night,  since  there  was  a  moon  by 
which  they  could  see  to  work,  and  the  man  with  the  engine 
was  engaged  for  another  farm  on  the  morrow.  Hence  the 
twanging  and  humming  and  rustling  proceeded  with  even 
less  intermission  than  was  usual. 

It  was  not  till  '  nammet '  time,  about  three  o'clock,  that 
Tess  raised  her  eyes  and  gave  a  momentary  glance  round. 
She  felt  but  little  surprise  at  seeing  that  Alec  D'Urberville 
had  come  back,  and  was  standing  under  the  hedge  by  the 
gate.  He  had  seen  her  lift  her  eyes,  and  waved  his  hand 
urbanely  to  her,  while  he  blew  her  a  kiss.     Tess  looked 


THE   CONVERT.  381 

down  again,  and  carefully  abstained  from  gazing  in  that 
direction. 

Thus  the  afternoon  dragged  on.  The  wheat-rick  shi-ank 
low^er,  and  the  straw-rick  grew  higher,  and  the  corn-sacks 
were  carted  away.  At  six  o'clock  the  wheat-rick  was  about 
shoulder-high  from  the  ground.  But  the  unthreshed  sheaves 
remaining  untouched  seemed  countless  still,  notwithstand- 
ing the  enormous  numbers  that  had  been  gulped  dowm  by 
the  insatiable  swallower,  fed  by  the  man  and  Tess,  tlu'ough 
whose  two  young  hands  the  greater  part  of  them  had 
passed;  and  the  enormous  stack  of  straw,  where  in  the 
morning  there  had  been  nothing,  appeared  as  the  fceces  of 
the  same  l^uzzing  red  glutton.  From  the  west  sky  a  i^^ath- 
ful  sliine — all  that  wild  Mjirch  could  afford  in  the  way  of 
sunset — had  bm-st  forth  after  the  cloudy  day,  flooding  the 
tired  and  sticky  faces  of  the  thi'eshers  and  dyeing  them 
with  a  copper}^  liglit,  as  also  the  flapping  garments  of  the 
women,  which  clung  to  them  like  didl  flames. 

A  panting  ache  ran  through  the  rick.  The  man  who  fed 
was  wear}^,  and  Tess  could  see  that  the  red  nape  of  his  neck 
was  covered  with  dirt  husks.  She  still  stood  at  her  post, 
her  flushed  and  perspiring  face  coated  with  the  corn-dust, 
and  her  white  bonnet  embrowned  by  it.  She  was  the  only 
woman  whose  place  was  upon  the  machine,  so  as  to  be 
shaken  bodily  l)y  its  spinning,  and  this  incessant  whiri-ing 
and  quivering,  in  which  every  fibre  of  her  body  participated, 
had  thro^^m  her  into  a  stupefied  reverie,  in  which  her  arms 
worked  on  independently  of  her  consciousness.  She  hardly 
knew  where  she  was,  and  did  not  hear  Izz  Huett — who,  with 
the  sinking  of  the  rick,  had  necessarily  moved  further  down 
from  her  side — offer  to  change  places  with  her. 

B}^  degTees  the  freshest  among  them  began  to  grow  cadav- 
erous and  saucer-eyed.  Whenever  Tess  lifted  her  head  she 
beheld  always  the  great  upgrown  straw-stack,  with  the  men 
in  shh't- sleeves  upon  it,  against  the  gray  north  sky ;  in  front 
of  it  the  long,  straight  elevator  like  a  Jacob's  ladder,  on 


382  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

which  a  perpetual  stream  of  threshed  straw  ascended,  a  yel- 
low river  ruuniug  up-hill,  and  spouting  out  on  the  top  of 
the  rick. 

She  knew  that  Alec  D'Urberville  was  still  on  the  scene, 
observing  her  from  some  point  or  other,  though  she  could 
not  say  where.  There  was  an  excuse  for  his  remaining,  for, 
when  the  threshed  rick  drew  near  its  final  sheaves,  a  little 
ratting  was  always  done,  and  men  unconnected  with  the 
threshing  sometimes  dropped  in  for  that  performance — 
sporting  characters  of  all  descriptions,  gents  with  terriers 
and  facetious  pipes,  roughs  with  sticks  and  stones. 

But  there  was  another  hour's  work  l^efore  the  layer  of 
live  rats  at  the  base  of  the  stack  would  be  reached  ]  and  as 
the  evening  light  in  the  dii'ection  of  the  Giant's  Hill  by 
Abbot's  Cernel  dissolved  away,  the  white-faced  moon  of 
the  season  arose  from  the  horizon  that  lav  towards  Middle- 
ton  and  Shottsf  ord  on  the  other  side.  For  the  last  hour  or 
two  Marian  had  felt  uneasy  about  Tess,  whom  she  could 
not  get  near  enough  to  speak  to,  the  other  women  having 
kept  up  theii'  strength  by  di'inking  ale,  and  Tess  having 
done  without  it  through  traditionary  di^ead,  owing  to  its 
results  at  her  home  in  childhood.  But  Tess  still  kept  going : 
if  she  could  not  fill  her  part  she  would  have  to  leave ;  and 
this  contingency,  which  she  would  have  regarded  with 
equanimity,  and  even  w^ith  relief,  a  month  or  two  earher, 
had  become  a  terror  since  D'Urberville  had  begun  to  hover 
round  her. 

The  sheaf -pitchers  and  feeders  had  now  worked  the  rick 
so  low  that  people  on  the  ground  could  talk  to  them.  To 
Tess's  surprise,  Farmer  Groby  came  up  on  the  machine  to 
her,  and  said  that  if  she  desired  to  join  her  friend  he  did 
not  wish  her  to  keep  on  any  longer,  and  woidd  send  some- 
body else  to  take  her  place.  The  ^'friend"  was  D'Urber- 
ville, she  knew,  and  also  that  this  concession  had  been 
granted  in  obedience  to  the  request  of  that  friend,  or  ene- 
my.    She  shook  her  head  and  toiled  on. 


THE  CONVERT.  383 

The  time  for  tlie  rat-catchiug  arrived  at  last,  and  the 
hunt  began.  The  creatures  had  crept  downwards  with  the 
subsidence  of  the  rick  till  they  were  all  together  at  the 
bottom,  and,  being  now  nncovered  from  their  last  refuge, 
they  ran  across  the  open  ground  in  all  directions,  a  loud 
shriek  from  the  l^y  this  time  half -tipsy  Marian  informing 
her  companions  that  one  of  the  rats  had  invaded  her  per- 
son— a  terror  which  the  rest  of  the  women  had  guarded 
against  by  various  schemes  of  skirt-tucking  and  self-eleva- 
tion. The  rat  was  at  last  dislodged,  and,  amid  the  bark- 
ing of  the  dogs,  mascnline  shouts,  feminine  screams,  oaths, 
stampings,  and  confusion  as  of  Pandemonium,  Tess  untied 
her  last  sheaf ;  the  di'uni  slowed,  the  whizzing  ceased,  and 
she  stepped  from  the  platform  of  the  machine  to  the  gronnd. 

Her  lover,  who  had  only  looked  on  at  the  rat-catching, 
was  promptly  at  her  side. 

"  What — after  all — my  insulting  slap,  too  !  "  said  she  in 
an  nnUerbreath.     She  was  so  ntterlv  exhausted  that  she 

ft/ 

had  not  strength  to  speak  londer. 

^'  I  should  indeed  be  foolish  to  feel  offended  at  anything 
yon  sav  or  do,"  he  answered,  in  the  seductive  voice  of  the 
Trantridge  time.  "  How  the  little  limbs  tremble  !  You  are 
as  weak  as  a  bled  calf,  you  know  you  are ;  and  yet  you 
need  have  done  nothing  since  I  arrived.  How  could  you 
be  so  obstinate  ?  However,  I  have  told  the  farmer  that  he 
has  no  right  to  employ  women  at  steam-threshing.  It  is 
not  proper  work  for  them ;  and  on  all  the  better  class  of 
farms  it  has  been  given  up,  as  he  knows  very  well.  I  will 
walk  with  you  as  far  as  your  home." 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  jaded  gait.  '^  Walk  with 
me  if  you  will !  I  do  bear  in  mind  that  you  came  to  marry 
me  before  you  knew  of  my  state.  Perhaps — perhaps  you 
be  a  little  better  and  kinder  than  I  have  been  thinking  you 
were.  Whatever  is  meant  as  kindness  I  am  gratef id  for ; 
whatever  is  meant  in  any  other  way  I  am  angry  at.  I  can- 
not sense  your  meanings  sometimes." 


}84  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 


4- 


"  If  I  cannot  legitimize  our  former  relationship,  at  lea 
I  can  assist  you.  And  I  will  do  it  with  much  more  regard 
for  3^our  feelings  than  I  formerly  showed.  My  rehgious 
mania,  or  whatever  it  was,  is  over.  But  I  retain  a  little 
good  natui'e ;  I  hope  I  do.  Now,  Tess,  by  aU  that's  tender 
and  strong  between  man  and  woman,  trust  me.  I  have 
enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  put  you  out  of  anxiety, 
both  for  youi'self  and  your  parents  and  sisters.  I  can 
make  them  all  comfortable  if  you  will  only  show  confidence 


in  me." 


"  Have  you  seen  them  lately  ? "  she  quickly  inquired. 

^'  Yes.  They  didn't  know  where  you  were.  It  was  only 
by  chance  that  I  found  you  here." 

The  cold  moon  looked  aslant  upon  Tess's  fagged  face  be- 
tween the  twigs  of  the  garden-hedge,  as  she  paused  outside 
the  cottage  which  was  her  temporary  home,  D'Urberville 
pausing  beside  her.  "  Don't  mention  my  httle  brothers 
and  sisters — don't  make  me  break  down  quite !  "  she  said. 
"  If  you  want  to  help  them — God  knows  they  need  it — do 
it  mthout  teUing  me.  But  no,  no !  "  she  cried.  '^  I  will 
accept  nothing  from  you,  either  for  them  or  for  me." 

He  did  not  accompany  her  further,  since,  as  she  lived 
mth  the  household,  aU  was  public  indoors.  No  sooner 
had  she  herself  entered,  laved  herself  in  a  wasliing-tub,  and 
mechanically  shared  supper  with  the  family,  than  she  fell 
into  thought,  and,  mthdrawing  to  the  table  under  the  wall 
by  the  light  of  her  oavu  little  lamp,  wrote  in  a  passionate 
mood : 

"My  own  Husband, — 

^'  Let  me  call  you  so — I  must — even  if  it  makes  you  an- 
giy  to  think  of  such  an  unworthy  wife  as  I.  I  must  cry  to 
you  in  my  trouble — I  have  no  one  else.  I  am  so  exposed 
to  temptation,  Angel.  I  fear  to  say  who  it  is,  and  I  do  not 
like  to  write  about  it  at  all.  But  I  cling  to  you  in  a  way 
you  cannot  think  I     Can  you  not  come  to  me  now,  at  once, 


THE   CONVERT.  385 

before  anything  terrible  happens  ?  0,  I  know  you  cannot, 
because  you  are  so  far  away.  I  think  I  must  die  if  you  do 
not  come  soon,  or  tell  me  to  come  to  you.  The  punishment 
you  have  measured  out  to  me  is  deserved,  indeed — I  do 
know  that — well  deserved — and  you  are  right  and  just  to 
be  angry  with  me.  But,  Angel,  please,  please  not  to  be  just 
— only  a  little  kind  to  me,  even  if  I  do  not  deserve  it,  and 
come  to  me  !  If  you  would  come,  I  could  die  in  your  arms  ! 
I  would  be  well  content  to  do  that  if  you  had  forgiven  me. 
"  Angel,  I  live  entirely  for  you.  I  love  you  too  much  to 
blame  you  for  going  away,  and  I  know  it  was  necessary 
you  should  find  a  farm.  Do  not  think  I  shall  say  a  word 
of  sting  or  bitterness.  Only  come  back  to  me.  I  am  deso- 
late without  you,  my  darling,  O,  so  desolate  !  I  do  not  mind 
having  to  work ;  but  if  you  will  send  me  one  little  line,  and 
say,  T  (U)i  coming  soon,''  I  will  bide  on.  Angel — O,  so  cheer- 
fully ! 

"  It  have  been  so  much  my  rehgion  ever  since  w^e  were 
married  to  be  faithful  to  you  in  every  thought  and  look, 
that  even  when  a  man  speaks  a  compliment  to  me  before  I 
am  aware,  it  seems  wronging  you.  Have  you  never  felt 
one  little  bit  of  what  vou  used  to  feel  when  we  were  at  the 
daily !  If  you  have,  how  can  you  keep  away  from  me  ?  I 
am  the  same  woman.  Angel,  as  she  you  fell  in  love  with ; 
yes,  the  very  same ! — not  the  one  you  disliked  but  never 
saw.  What  was  the  past  to  me  as  soon  as  I  met  you? 
It  was  a  dead  thing  altogether.  I  became  another  woman, 
Med  full  of  new  life  from  you.  How  could  I  be  the  early 
one  ?  Why  do  you  not  see  this  ?  Dear,  if  you  would  only 
be  a  Little  more  conceited,  arhd  believe  in  youi'self  so  far  as 
to  see  that  you  was  strong  enough  to  work  this  change  in 
me,  you  would  perhaps  be  in  a  mind  to  come  to  me,  your 
poor  wife. 

•  "How  silly  I  was  in  my  happiness  when  I  thought  I 
could  trust  you  always  to  love  me !  I  ought  to  have 
known  that  such  as  that  was  not  for  poor  me,    But  I  am 

^0 


386  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

sick  at  heart,  not  only  for  old  times,  bnt  for  tlie  present. 
Think — tliink  how  it  do  hnrt  my  heart  not  to  see  you  ever 
— ever !  Ah,  if  I  could  only  make  your  dear  heart  ache 
one  little  minute  of  each  day  as  mine  does  every  day  and 
all  day  long,  it  might  lead  you  to  show  pity  to  yom*  poor 
lonely  one. 

"  People  still  sa}^  that  I  am  rather  pretty,  Angel  (hand- 
some is  the  Avord  they  use,  since  I  msh  to  be  truthful). 
Perhaps  I  am  what  they  say.  But  I  do  not  value  my  good 
looks :  I  only  like  to  have  them  because  they  belong  to  you, 
my  dear,  and  that  there  may  be  at  least  one  thing  about 
me  worth  your  having.  So  much  have  I  felt  this,  that  when 
I  met  mth  annoyance  on  account  of  the  same  I  tied  up 
my  face  in  a  bandage  as  long  as  people  would  believe  in  it. 
O  Angel,  I  tell  you  all  this  not  from  vanity — you  will  cer- 
tainly know  I  do  not — but  only  that  you  may  come  to  me. 

"  If  you  really  cannot  come  to  me  will  you  let  me  come 
to  you  ?  I  am,  as  I  say,  harried,  pressed  to  do  what  I  will 
not  do.  It  cannot  be  that  I  shall  yield  one  inch,  yet  I  am 
in  terror  as  to  what  an  accident  might  lead  to,  and  I  so 
defenceless  on  account  of  mv  fii'st  error.  I  cannot  sav 
more  about  this — it  makes  me  too  miserable.  But  if  I 
break  do"v\m  by  falling  into  some  fearful  snare,  my  last 
state  will  be  worse  than  my  first.  0  Heaven,  I  cannot 
think  of  it !     Let  me  come  at  once,  or  at  once  come  to  me  ! 

^^  I  would  be  content,  ay,  glad,  to  hve  ^^dth  you  as  your  ser- 
vant, if  I  may  not  as  your  wife ;  so  that  I  could  only  be  near 
you,  and  get  glimpses  of  you,  and  think  of  you  as  mine. 

"  The  daylight  has  nothing  to  show  me,  since  you  be  not 
here,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  the  rooks  and  starlings  in  the 
fields,  because  I  grieve  and  grieve  to  miss  you  who  used  to 
see  them  with  me.  I  long  for  only  one  thing  in  heaven  or 
earth  or  under  earth,  to  meet  you,  my  own  dear !  Come  to 
me — come  to  me^  and  save  me  from  what  threatens  me ! 

'^  Your  faithful,  heartbroken 

''  Tess/' 


THE  CONVERT.  387 


XLIX. 

The  appeal  duly  found  its  way  to  the  breakfast- table  of 
the  quiet  vicarage  to  the  westward,  iu  that  valley  where  the 
air  is  so  soft  and  the  soil  is  so  rich  that  the  effort  of  growth 
requires  but  superficial  aid  by  comparison  with  the  tillage 
of  Flintcomb-Ash,  and  where  to  Tess  the  human  world 
seemed  so  different  (though  it  was  much  the  same).  It 
was  purely  for  security  that  she  had  been  requested  by 
Angel  to  send  her  conmiunications  tlirough  his  father, 
whom  he  kept  pretty  well  informed  of  his  changing  ad- 
dresses in  the  country  he  had  gone  to  exploit  for  himself 
vdth  a  heavy  heart. 

''Now/'  said  old  Mr.  Clare  to  his  wife,  when  he  had  read 
the  envelope,  "if  Angel  proposes  leaving  Rio  for  a  visit 
home  at  the  end  of  next  month,  as  he  told  us  that  he  hoped 
to  do,  I  think  this  may  hasten  his  plans,  for  I  believe  it  to 
be  from  his  wife."  He  breathed  deeply  at  the  thought  of 
her,  and  the  letter  was  redii'ected,  to  be  promptly  sent  on  to 
Angel. 

"  Dear  fellow,  I  hope  he  will  get  home  safely,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Clare.  "  To  my  dying  day  I  shall  feel  that  he  has  been 
ill-used.  You  should  have  sent  him  to  Cambridge  in  spite 
of  his  heterodoxy,  and  given  him  the  same  chance  as  the 
other  boys  had.  He  would  have  grown  out  of  it  under 
proper  influence,  and  perhaps  would  have  taken  Orders 
after  all.  Church  or  no  Church,  it  would  have  been  f au^er 
to  him." 

This  was  the  only  wail  with  which  Mrs.  Clare  ever  dis- 
turbed her  husband's  peace  in  respect  of  their  sons.  And 
she  did  not  vent  this  often ;  for  she  was  as  considerate  as 
she  was  devout,  and  knew  that  his  mind  too  was  troubled 
by  doubts  as  to  his  justice  in  this  matter.     Only  too  ofteii 


388  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

had  she  heard  him,  lying  awake  at  night,  stifling  sighs  for 
Angel  with  prayers.  But  the  uncompromising  Evangehcal 
did  not  even  now  hold  that  he  would  have  been  justified  in 
giving  his  son,  an  unbeliever,  the  same  academic  advan- 
tages that  he  had  given  to  the  two  brothers,  when  it  was 
possible,  if  not  probable,  that  those  very  advantages  might 
have  been  used  to  decry  the  doctrines  which  he  had  made 
it  his  life's  mission  and  desii'e  to  propagate,  and  the  mission 
of  his  ordamed  sons  likemse.  To  put  with  one  hand  a  ped- 
estal under  the  feet  of  the  two  faithful  ones,  and  with  the 
other  to  elevate  the  unfaithful  by  the  same  artificial  means, 
he  deemed  to  be  alike  inconsistent  with  his  convictions,  liis 
position,  and  his  hopes.  Nevertheless,  he  loved  his  mis- 
named Angel,  and  in  secret  mourned  over  this  treatment 
of  him  as  Abraham  might  have  moulded  over  the  doomed 
Isaac  while  they  went  up  the  hill  together.  His  silent  self- 
generated  regrets  were  far  bilterer  than  the  rej^roaches 
which  his  wife  rendered  audible. 

They  blamed  themselves  for  this  unlucky  marriage.  If 
Angel  had  never  been  destined  for  a  farmer  he  would  never 
have  been  thrown  with  agricultural  ghls.  They  did  not 
distinctly  know  what  had  separated  him  and  his  wife,  nor 
the  date  on  which  the  separation  had  taken  place.  At  first 
they  had  supposed  it  must  be  something  of  the  natui^e  of 
a  serious  aversion.  But  in  his  later  letters  he  occasionally 
alluded  to  the  intention  of  coming  home  to  fetch  her ;  from 
which  expressions  they  hoped  the  division  might  not  owe 
its  origin  to  anything  so  hopelessl}^  permanent  as  that.  He 
had  told  them  that  she  was  with  her  relatives,  and  in  then* 
doubts  they  had  decided  not  to  intrude  into  a  situation 
which  they  knew  no  way  of  bettering. 

The  eyes  for  which  Tess's  letter  had  been  intended  were 
gazing  at  this  time  on  a  limitless  expanse  of  country  from 
the  back  of  a  mule,  which  was  bearing  him  from  the  inte- 
rior of  the  South- American  Continent  towards  the  coast, 


THE  CONVERT.  389 

His  experiences  of  this  strange  land  liad  been  sad.  The 
severe  illness  from  which  he  had  snffered  shortly  after  his 
arrival  had  never  wholly  left  him^  and  he  had  by  degrees 
almost  decided  to  relinqnish  his  hope  of  farming  here, 
though,  as  long  as  the  bare  possibility  existed  of  his  re- 
maining, he  kept  this  change  of  view  a  secret  from  his 
parents. 

The  crowds  of  agricultural  laborers  who  had  come  out  to 
the  country  in  his  wake,  dazzled  by  representations  of  easy 
independence,  had  suffered,  died,  and  wasted  awa}^  He 
saw  mothers  from  English  farms  trudging  along  T\dth  their 
infants  in  their  arms,  when  the  child  would  be  stricken 
with  fever  and  would  die  ;  the  mother  would  pause  to  dig  a 
hole  in  the  loose  earth  with  her  bare  hands,  would  burv  the 
infant  therein  with  the  same  natural  grave-tools,  shed  one 
tear,  and  again  trudge  on. 

AngePs  original  intention  had  not  been  emigration  to 
Brazil,  but  a  northern  or  eastern  farm  in  his  own  countrv. 
He  had  come  to  this  place  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  the  Brazil 
movemotit  among  the  English  agriculturists  having  by 
chance  coincided  with  his  desii'e  to .  escape  from  his  past 
existence. 

Dming  this  time  of  his  absence  he  had  mentally  aged  a 
dozen  years.  What  arrested  him  now  as  of  value  in  life 
was  less  its  beauty  than  its  pathos.  Having  long  discred- 
ited the  old  systems  of  mysticism,  he  now  began  to  dis- 
credit the  old  appraisements  of  morality.  He  thought  they 
wanted  readjusting.  Who  was  the  moral  man  ?  Still  more 
pertinent^,  who  was  the  moral  woman?  The  beauty  or 
ugliness  of  a  character  lay,  not  only  in  its  achievements, 
but  in  its  aims  and  impulses ;  its  true  liistory  lay,  not 
among  things  done,  but  among  things  willed. 

How,  then,  about  Tess  ? 

Viewing  her  in  these  lights,  a  regi'et  for  his  hasty  judg- 
ment began  to  oppress  him.     Did  he  reject  her  eternally, 


390  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

or  did  lie  not?  He  could  no  longer  say  that  he  would 
always  reject  her,  and  not  to  say  that  was,  in  spirit,  to 
accept  her  now. 

This  growing  fondness  for  her  memory  coincided  in  point 
of  time  with  her  residence  at  Flintcomb-Ash ;  but  it  was 
before  she  had  felt  herself  at  liberty  to  trouble  him  about 
her  circumstances  or  her  feelings.  He  was  greatly  per- 
plexed 5  and  in  his  perplexity  as  to  her  motives  in  with- 
holding intelligence  he  did  not  inquire.  Thus  her  silence 
of  docihty  was  misinterpreted.  How  much  it  really  said, 
if  he  had  understood !  That  she  adhered  with  literal  exact- 
ness to  orders  which  he  had  given  and  forgotten ;  that, 
despite  her  natural  fearlessness  of  natui^e,  she  asserted  no 
rights,  made  no  claim,  admitted  his  judgment  to  be  in  every 
respect  the  true  one,  and  bent  her  head  dumbly  thereto. 

In  the  before-mentioned  jom'ney  by  mules  thi'ough  the 
interior  of  the  country  another  man  rode  beside  him.  An- 
gel's companion  was  also  an  Englishman,  bent  on  the  same 
errand,  though  he  came  from  another  part  of  the  island. 
They  were  both  in  a  state  of  mental  depression,  and  they 
spoke  of  home  affaii's.  Confidence  begat  confidence.  With 
that  cm^ious  tendency  e\dnced  by  men,  more  especially  when 
in  distant  lands,  to  entrust  to  strangers  details  of  their  lives 
which  they  would  on  no  account  mention  to  friends,  Angel 
admitted  to  this  man  as  they  rode  along  the  sorrowf id  facts 
of  his  marriage. 

The  stranger  had  sojourned  in  many  more  lands  and 
among  many  more  peoples  than  Angel  j  to  his  cosmopolitan 
mind  such  deviations  from  the  social  norm,  so  immense  to 
domesticity,  were  no  more  than  are  the  irregularities  of 
vale  and  mountain-chain  to  the  whole  terrestrial  curve. 
He  viewed  the  matter  in  quite  a  different  light  from  Angel ; 
thought  that  what  Tess  had  been  was  of  no  importance  be- 
side what  she  would  be,  and  plainly  told  Clare  that  he  was 
"WTong  in  coming  away  from  her. 

The  next  day  they  were  di'enched  in  a  thunderstorm. 


THE  C0N\T:RT.  391 

Angel's  companion  was  struck  down  with  fever,  and  died 
by  the  week's  end.  Clare  waited  a  few  hours  to  buiy  him, 
and  then  went  on  his  way. 

The  cursory  remarks  of  tlie  large-minded  stranger,  of 
whom  he  knew  absolutely  nothing  beyond  a  commonplace 
name,  were  sublimed  by  his  death,  and  influenced  Clare 
more  than  all  the  reasoned  ethics  of  the  philosophers.  His 
own  parocliiahsm  made  him  ashamed  by  its  contrast.  His 
inconsistencies  rushed  upon  him  in  a  flood.  He  had  per- 
sistently elevated  Hellenic  Paganism  at  the  expense  of 
Christianity;  yet  in  that  civilization  an  illegal  surrender 
was  not  certain  disesteem.  Surely  then  he  might  have 
regarded  that  abhorrence  of  the  un-intact  state,  which  he 
had  inherited  with  the  creed  of  mysticism,  as  at  least  open 
to  correction  when  the  result  was  due  to  treachery.  A 
remorse  struck  into  him.  The  words  of  Izz  Huett,  never 
quite  stilled  in  his  memory,  came  back  to  him.  He  had 
asked  Izz  if  she  loved  him,  and  she  had  replied  in  the 
affirmative.  Did  she  love  him  more  than  Tess  did  ?  No, 
she  had  replied ;  Tess  would  lay  doTVTi  her  life  for  him ; 
and  she  herself  coidd  do  no  more. 

He  thought  of  Tess  as  she  had  appeared  on  the  day  of 
the  wedding.  How  her  eyes  had  lingered  upon  him ;  how 
she  had  hung  upon  his  words  as  if  they  wxre  a  god's.  And 
during  the  terrible  evening  over  the  hearth,  when  her 
simple  soul  uncovered  itself  to  his,  how  pitiful  her  face  had 
looked  in  the  rays  of  the  fiiT,  in  her  inability  to  realize  that 
his  love  and  protection  could  possibly  be  withdrawn. 

Thus  from  being  her  critic  he  grew  to  be  her  advocate. 
Cynical  things  he  had  uttered  to  himself  about  her ;  but  no 
man  can  be  a  cvnic  and  live ;  and  he  withdrew  them.  The 
mistake  of  expressing  them  had  arisen  from  his  allowing 
himself  to  be  influenced  b}"  general  principles,  to  the  disre- 
gard of  the  particular  instance. 

But  the  reasoning  is  somewhat  musty ;  lovers  and  hus- 
bands have  gone  over  the  ground  before  to-day.    Clare  had 


392  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

been  liarsli  towards  her )  there  is  no  doubt  of  it.  Men  are 
too  often  harsh  with  w^omen  they  love  or  have  loved; 
women  with  men.  And  yet  these  harshnesses  are  tender- 
ness itself  when  compared  with  the  universal  harshness 
out  of  which  they  grow;  the  harshness  of  the  position 
towards  the  temperament,  of  the  means  towards  the  aims, 
of  to-day  towards  yesterday,  of  hereafter  towards  to-day. 

The  historic  interest  of  her  family — that  ancient  and 
masterful  line  of  D'Urber\T.Ues — whom  he  had  despised  as 
a  spent  force,  touched  his  sentiments  now.  Why  had  he 
not  known  the  difference  between  the  political  value  and 
the  imaginative  value  of  these  things  ?  In  the  latter  quality 
her  D'Urberville  descent  was  a  fact  of  great  dimensions ; 
w^orthless  to  economics,  it  was  a  most  useful  ingredient  to 
the  dreamer^  to  the  moralizer  on  declines  and  falls.  It  was 
a  fact  that  would  soon  be  forgotten — that  bit  of  distinction 
in  poor  Tess's  blood  and  name,  and  obli\don  would  fall  upon 
her  hereditarv  link  with  the  marble  monuments  and  leaded 
skeletons  at  Kingsbere.  So  does  Time  ruthlessly  destroy 
his  own  romances.  In  recalling  her  face  again  and  again, 
he  thought  now  that  he  could  see  therein  a  flash  of  the  dig- 
nity which  must  have  graced  her  grand-dames ;  and  the 
vision  sent  that  aura  through  his  veins  which  he  had  for- 
merly felt,  and  which  left  behind  it  a  sense  of  sickness. 

Despite  her  not  in\'iolate  past,  what  still  abode  in  such 
a  woman  as  Tess  outvalued  the  freshness  of  her  fellows. 
Was  not  the  gleaning  of  the  grapes  of  Epliraim  better  than 
the  vintage  of  Abi-ezcr  ? 

So  spoke  Love  renascent  preparing  the  way  for  Tess's 
devoted  outpoui-ing  which  was  then  just  being  forw^arded 
to  him  by  his  father,  though  owing  to  his  distance  inland 
it  was  to  be  a  long  time  in  reaching  him. 

Meanwhile  the  ^vidter's  expectation  that  Angel  would 
come  soon  in  response  to  the  entreaty  was  alternately 
gi-eat  and  small.  What  lessened  it  was  that  the  facts  of 
her  life  which  had  led  to  the  parting  had  not  changed — 


THE   COXVERT.  393 

could  never  cliange ;  and  that,  if  her  presence  had  not 
attenuated  them,  her  absence  could  not.  Nevertheless  she 
addressed  her  mind  to  the  tender  question  of  what  she 
could  do  to  please  him  best  if  he  should  arrive. 

Sighs  were  expended  on  the  wish  that  she  had  taken 
more  notice  of  the  tunes  he  played  on  his  harp,  that  she 
had  inquii-ed  more  curiously  of  him  which  were  his  favorite 
ballads  among  those  the  country  girls  sang.  She  indirectly 
inquired  of  Amby  Seedling,  who  had  followed  Izz  from 
Talbothays,  and  by  chance  Ambv  remembered  that,  among 
the  snatches  of  melody  hi  which  they  had  indulged  at  the 
dairyman's,  to  induce  the  cows  to  let  do^\^l  their  milk,  Clare 
had  seemed  to  lilvc  "  Cupid's  Gardens,"  "  I  have  parks,  I 
have  hounds,"  and  "  The  break  o'  the  day  " ;  and  had  seemed 
not  to  care  for  "  The  Tailor's  Breeches,"  and  "  Such  a 
beauty  I  did  grow,"  excellent  ditties  as  they  were. 

To  perfect  the  baUads  was  her  whimsical  desire;  she 
practiced  them  privately  at  odd  moments,  especially  "  The 
break  o'  the  day  "  : 

Arise,  arise,  arise ! 
And  pick  your  love  a  posy, 
All  of  the  sweetest  flowers 
That  in  the  garden  grow. 
The  turtle  doves  and  small  birds 
In  every  bough  a  building, 
So  early  in  the  spring-time, 
At  the  break  o'  the  day ! 

It  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a  stone  to  hear  her 
singing  these  ditties,  whenever  she  worked  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  gii'ls  in  this  cold,  dry  time ;  the  tears  running 
dovni  her  cheeks  all  the  while  at  the  thought  that  perhaps 
he  would  not,  after  all,  come  to  hear  her,  and  the  simple, 
silly  words  of  the  songs  resounding  in  painful  mockery  of 
the  aching  heart  of  the  singer. 

Tess  was  so  wrapt  up  in  this  fanciful  di^eam  that  she 
seemed  not  to  know  how  the  season  was  advancing;  that 


394  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

the  days  had  leugthened,  that  Lady-Day  was  at  hand,  and 
would  soon  be  followed  by  Old  Lady-Day,  the  end  of  her 
term  here. 

But  before  the  quarter-day  had  quite  come  somethmg 
happened  which  made  Tess  think  of  far  different  matters. 
She  w^as  at  her  lodging  as  usual  one  evening,  sitting  in  the 
downstau's  room  with  the  rest  of  the  familv,  when  some- 
body  knocked  at  the  door  and  inquired  for  Tess.  Through 
the  doorway  she  saw  against  the  declining  light  a  figm'e 
^\ith  the  height  of  a  woman  and  the  breadth  of  a  child,  a 
tall,  thin,  girhsh  creature  whom  she  did  not  recognize  in 
the  twiliglit  tiU  the  gu4  said  "  Tess  !  " 

^'  What — is  it  'Liza  Lu  1 "  asked  Tess,  in  startled  accents. 
Her  sister,  whom  a  little  over  a  year  ago  she  had  left  at 
home  as  a  child,  had  sprung  up  by  a  sudden  shoot  to  a 
form  of  this  presentation,  of  which  as  yet  Lu  seemed  her- 
self scarce  able  to  understand  the  meaning.  Her  thin  legs, 
visible  below  her  once  long  frock,  now  short  by  her  grow- 
ing, and  her  uncomfortable  hands  and  arms,  revealed  her 
youth  and  inexperience. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  traipsing  about  all  day,  Tess,"  said  Lu, 
with  unemotional  gravity,  "  a  trying  to  find  'ee ;  and  I'm 
very  tired." 

"  What  is  the  matter  at  home  ? " 

'^  Mother  is  took  very  bad,  and  the  doctor  says  she's  dy- 
ing ;  and  as  father  is  not  very  well  neither,  and  says  'tis 
wrong  for  a  man  of  such  a  high  family  as  his  to  slave  and 
drave  at  common  laboring  work,  we  don't  know  wdiat  to 
do." 

Tess  stood  in  reverie  a  long  time  before  she  thought  of 
asking  'Liza  Lu  to  come  in  and  sit  down.  When  she  had 
done  so,  and  'Liza  Lu  was  having  some  tea,  she  came  to  a 
decision.  It  was  imperative  that  she  should  go  home.  Her 
agreement  did  not  end  till  Old  Lady-Day,  the  sixth  of 
April,  but  as  the  interval  thereto  was  not  a  long  one,  she 
resolved  to  run  the  risk  of  starting  at  once. 


THE  CON^T]RT.  395 

To  go  that  niglit  would  be  a  gain  of  twelve  hours ;  but 
her  sister  was  too  tired  to  undertake  such  a  distance  till 
the  morrow.  Tess  ran  down  to  where  Marian  and  Izz  lived, 
informed  them  of  what  had  happened,  and  begged  them  to 
make  the  best  of  her  case  to  the  farmer.  Returning,  she 
got  Lu  a  supper,  and  after  that,  having  tucked  the  younger 
into  her  own  bed,  packed  up  as  many  of  her  belongings  as 
would  go  into  a  mthy  basket,  and  started,  directing  Lu 
to  follow  her  next  morning. 


L. 

She  plunged  into  the  chilly  equinoctial  darkness  as  the 
clock  struck  ten,  for  her  fifteen  miles'  walk  under  the  steely 
stars.  In  lonely  districts  night  is  a  protection  rather  than 
a  danger  to  a  noiseless  pedestrian,  and  knowing  this  from 
experience,  Tess  pursued  the  nearest  coui-se  along  by-lanes 
that  she  would  almost  have  feared  in  the  da}i:ime;  but 
marauders  were  lacking  now,  and  spectral  fears  were  driven 
out  of  her  mind  by  thoughts  of  her  mother.  Thus  she  pro- 
ceeded mile  after  mile,  ascending  and  descending  till  she 
came  to  Bulbarrow,  and  about  midnight  looked  from  that 
height  into  the  abyss  of  chaotic  shade  which  was  all  that 
revealed  itself  of  the  vale  on  whose  farther  side  she  was 
born.  Haidng  already  traversed  about  five  miles  on  the 
upland,  she  had  now  some  ten  or  eleven  in  the  lowland 
l^efore  her  jom'uey  would  be  finished.  The  winding  road 
downwards  became  just  visible  to  her  under  the  wan  star- 
light as  she  followed  it,  and  soon  she  paced  a  soil  so  con- 
trasting -v^dth  that  above  it  that  the  difference  was  percep- 
tible to  the  tread  and  to  the  smell.  It  was  the  heavy  clay 
land  of  Blackmoor  Vale,  and  a  part  of  the  Vale  to  which 
turnpike  roads  had  never  penetrated.     Superstitions  linger 


396  TESS   OF   THE   D^URBERVILLES. 

longest  on  these  liea\^  soils.  Having  once  been  forest,  at 
this  shadowy  time  it  seemed  to  assert  something  of  its  old 
character,  the  far  and  the  near  being  blended,  and  every 
tree  and  tall  hedge  making  the  most  of  its  presence.  The 
harts  that  had  been  hnnted  here ;  the  ^^dtches  that  had  been 
pricked  and  dncked  ;  the  gi^een-spangled  fairies  that  "  whick- 
ered "  at  you  as  j^ou  passed — the  place  teemed  with,  beliefs 
in  them  still,  and  they  formed  an  impish  multitude  now. 

At  Nuzzlebury  she  passed  the  village  inn,  whose  sign 
creaked  in  response  to  the  greeting  of  her  footsteps,  which 
not  a  human  soul  heard  but  herself.  Under  the  thatched 
roofs  her  mind's  eye  beheld  relaxed  tendons  and  flaccid 
muscles,  spread  out  in  the  darkness  beneath  coverlets  made 
of  little  pm^ple  patchwork  squares,  and  undergoing  a  bracing 
process  at  the  hands  of  sleep  for  renewed  labor  on  the  mor- 
To^f,  as  soon  as  a  hint  of  pink  nebulosity  appeared  on  Ham- 
bledon  Hill. 

At  three  she  turned  the  last  corner  of  the  maze  of  lanes 
she  had  threaded,  and  entered  Marlott,  passing  the  field  in 
which,  as  a  club-girl,  she  had  fii'st  seen  Angel  Clare,  when 
he  had  not  danced  with  her  5  the  sense  of  disappointment 
remained  T\dth  her  yet.  In  the  dii'ection  of  her  mother's 
house  she  saw  a  light.  It  came  from  the  bedroom  "v^-indow, 
and  a  branch  waved  in  front  of  it  and  made  it  wink  at  her. 
As  soon  as  she  could  discern  the  outline  of  the  house — 
newlv  thatched  with  her  monev — it  had  all  its  old  effect 
upon  Tess's  imagination.  Part  of  her  body  and  hfe  it  ever 
seemed  to  l)e ;  the  slope  of  its  dormers,  the  finish  of  its 
gables,  the  broken  courses  of  brick  which  topped  the  chim- 
ney, all  had  something  in  common  with  her  personal  char- 
acter. A  stupefaction  had  come  into  these  features,  to  her 
regard ;  it  meant  the  illness  of  her  mother. 

She  opened  the  door  so  softly  as  to  disturb  nobody;  the 
lower  room  was  vacant,  but  the  neighbor  who  was  sitting 
up  with  her  mother  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  whis- 
pered that  Mrs.  Durbej^eld  was  no  better,  though  she  was 


THE  CONVERT.  397 

sleeping  just  then.     Tess  prepared  herself  a  breakfast,  and 
then  took  her  place  as  nurse  in  her  mother's  chamber. 

In  the  morning,  when  she  contemplated  the  cliildren,  they 
had  all  a  cm'iously  elongated  look  5  although  she  had  been 
away  little  more  than  a  year,  their  growth  was  astounding ; 
and  the  necessity  of  applying  herseK  heart  and  soul  to 
their  needs  took  her  out  of  her  own  cares. 

Her  father's  ill-health  was  of  the  same  indefinite  kind, 
and  he  sat  in  his  chair  as  usual.  But  the  day  after  her  ar- 
rival he  was  unusually  bright.  He  had  a  rational  scheme 
for  living,  and  Tess  asked  him  what  it  was. 

^^  I'm  thinking  of  sending  round  to  all  the  old  antiqueer- 
uns  in  this  part  of  England,"  he  said,  ^'  asking  them  to  sub- 
scribe to  a  fund  to  maintain  me.  I'm  sure  they'd  see  it  as 
a  romantical,  artistical,  and  proper  thing  to  do.  They  spend 
lots  o'  money  in  keeping  up  old  ruins,  and  fijiding  the  bones 
o'  things,  and  such  like ;  and  living  remains  must  be  more 
interesting  to  'em  still,  if  they  only  knowed  o'  me.  Woidd 
that  somebody  would  go  round  and  teU  'em  what  there  is 
living  among  'em,  and  they  thinldn^-  nothing  of  him  !  If 
Pa'son  Tringham,  who  discovered  me,  had  hved,  he'd  ha' 
done  it,  I'm  sure." 

Tess  postponed  her  arguments  on  this  high  project  till 
she  had  gTappled  with  pressing  matters  in  hand,  which 
seemed  little  improved  by  her  remittances.  When  indoor 
necessities  had  been  eased,  she  turned  her  attention  to  ex- 
ternal things.  It  was  now  the  season  for  planting  and  sow- 
ing; many  gardens  and  allotments  of  the  \dllagers  had 
already  received  their  spring  tillage ;  but  the  garden  and 
the  allotment  of  the  Durbeyflelds  were  behindhand.  She 
found  to  her  dismay  that  this  was  owing  to  their  having 
eaten  aU  the  seed  potatoes — that  last  lapse  of  the  improvi- 
dent. With  her  slender  means  she  obtained  what  others 
she  coidd  procuiT,  and  in  a  few  days  her  father  was  well 
enough  to  see  to  the  garden  under  Tess's  persuasive  eiforts : 
while  she  herseK  undertook  the  allotment-plot  which  they 


398  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

rented  in  a  field  a  conple  of  hnndred  yards  out  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

She  liked  doing  it  after  the  confinement  of  the  sick  cham- 
ber, where  she  was  not  now  requu'ed  by  reason  of  her  moth- 
er's improvement.  Violent  motion  relieved  thought.  The 
plot  of  gTOund  was  in  a  high,  dry,  open  enclosure,  where 
there  were  forty  or  fifty  such  pieces,  and  where  labor  was 
at  its  briskest  when  the  hii'ed  labor  of  the  day  had  ended. 
Digging  began  usually  at  six  o'clock,  and  extended  indefi- 
nitely into  the  dusk  or  moonlight.  Just  now  heaps  of  dead 
weeds  and  refuse  were  burning  on  many  of  the  plots,  the 
dry  weather  favoring  their  combustion. 

One  fine  day  Tess  and  'Liza  Lu  worked  on  here  with  their 
neighbors  till  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  smote  flat  upon  the 
white  pegs  that  divided  the  plots.  As  soon  as  twilight  suc- 
ceeded to  sunset,  the  flare  of  the  couch-grass  and  cabbage- 
stalk  fires  began  to  light  up  the  allotment  fitfully,  theii'  out- 
lines appearing  and  disappearing  under  the  dense  smoke  as 
wafted  by  the  wind.  When  a  fire  glowed,  banks  of  smoke, 
blown  level  along  the  ^Tound,  w^ould  themselves  become 
illuminated  to  an  opaque  lustre,  screening  the  work-people 
from  one  another;  and  the  meaning  of  the  "pillar  of  a 
cloud,"  which  was  a  wall  by  day  and  a  light  by  night,  could 
be  understood. 

As  evening  thickened,  some  of  the  gardening  men  and 
women  gave  over  for  the  night,  but  the  greater  number 
remained  to  get  their  planting  done,  Tess  being  among 
them,  though  she  sent  her  sister  home.  It  was  on  one  of 
the  couch-burning  plots  that  she  labored  with  her  fork,  its 
four  shining  prongs  resounding  against  the  stones  and  dry 
clods  in  little  cHcks.  Sometimes  she  was  completely  in- 
volved in  the  smoke  of  her  fire ;  then  it  would  leave  her 
figure  free,  irradiated  by  the  brassy  glare  from  the  heap. 
She  was  oddly  dressed  to-night,  and  presented  a  somewhat 
staring  aspect,  her  attire  being  a  gown  bleached  by  many 
washings,  with  a  short  black  jacket  over  it,  the  effect  of  the 


THE   CONVERT.  399 

whole  being  that  of  a  wedding  and  funeral  gnest  in  one. 
The  women  farther  back  wore  white  aprons,  which,  ^\dth 
their  pale  faces,  were  all  that  could  be  seen  of  them  in  the 
gloom,  except  when  at  moments  they  caught  a  flash  from 
the  flames. 

Westward,  the  Ynry  boughs  of  the  bare  thorn  hedge  which 
formed  the  boundary  of  the  field  rose  against  the  pale 
opalescence  of  the  lower  sky  that  deepened  upward  to  blue- 
black,  where  Jupiter  hung  like  a  full-blown  jonquil,  so 
bright  as  almost  to  throw  a  shade.  A  few  small  nonde- 
script stars  were  appearing  elsewhere.  In  the  distance  a 
dog  barked,  and  wheels  occasionally  rattled  along  the  dry 
road. 

Still  the  prongs  continued  to  click  busily,  for  it  was  not 
late,  and  though  the  air  was  fresh  and  keen  there  was  a 
whisper  of  spring  in  it  that  cheered  the  workers  on.  Some- 
thing in  the  place,  the  hour,  the  crackling  fires,  the  fantastic 
mysteries  of  light  and  shade,  made  others  as  well  as  Tess 
enjoy  being  there.  Nightfall,  which  in  the  fi'ost  of  winter 
comes  as  a  fiend,  and  in  the  warmth  of  summer  as  a  lover, 
came  as  a  tranquillizer  on  this  March  day. 

Nobody  looked  at  his  or  her  companions.  The  eyes  of 
all  were  on  the  soil  as  its  tinned  surface  was  revealed  by 
the  fii-es.  Hence,  as  Tess  stirred  the  clods,  and  sang  her 
foolish  little  songs  with  scarce  now  a  hope  that  Clare  would 
ever  hear  them,  she  did  not  for  a  long  time  notice  the  per- 
son who  worked  nearest  to  her — a  man  in  a  long  smock- 
frock  who,  she  found,  was  forking  the  same  plot  as  herself, 
and  whom  she  supposed  her  father  had  sent  there  to  ad- 
vance the  work.  She  became  more  conscious  of  him  when 
the  direction  of  his  digging  brought  him  closer  to  her. 
Sometimes  the  smoke  divided  them ;  then  it  swerved,  and 
the  two  were  visible  to  each  other,  but  divided  from  all  the 
rest. 

Tess  did  not  speak  to  her  fellow- worker,  nor  did  he  speak 
to  her.    Nor  did  she  think  of  him  fiu'ther  than  to  recollect 


400  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

that  he  had  not  been  there  when  it  was  broad  daylight,  and 
that  she  did  not  know  him  as  any  one  of  the  Mario tt  labor- 
ers, which  was  no  wonder,  her  absences  having  been  so  long 
and  frequent  of  late  years.  B}^  and  by  he  dug  so  close  to 
her  that  the  fii-e-beams  w^ere  reflected  as  distinctly  from 
the  steel  prongs  of  his  fork  as  from  her  own.  On  going 
up  to  the  fire  to  throw  a  pitch  of  dead  w^eeds  upon  it,  she 
found  that  he  did  the  same  on  the  other  side.  The  fire 
flared  up,  and  she  beheld  the  face  of  D'Urber\TlLe. 

The  unexpectedness  of  his  presence,  the  grotesqueness 
of  his  appearance  in  a  gathered  smock-frock,  such  as  was 
now  worn  only  by  the  most  old-fashioned  of  the  laborers, 
had  a  ghastly  comicality  that  chilled  her  as  to  its  bearing. 
D'Urber^dlle  emitted  a  low,  long  laugh. 

''  If  I  were  inclined  to  joke  I  should  say.  How  much  this 
seems  like  Paradise !  "  he  remarked,  whimsically  looking 
at  her  with  an  inclined  head. 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  she  weakly  asked. 

"A  jester  might  say  this  is  just  like  Paradise.  You  are 
Eve,  and  I  am  the  old  Other  One  come  to  tempt  you  in  the 
disguise  of  an  inferior  animal.  I  used  to  be  quite  up  in 
that  scene  of  Milton's  when  I  was  theological.  Some  of  it 
goes — 

"  '  Empress,  the  way  is  ready,  and  not  long. 

.     .     .     If  thou  accept 
My  conduct,  I  can  bring  thee  thither  soon.' 
'Lead  then,'  said  Eve. 

And  so  on.  My  dear,  dear  Tess,  I  am  only  putting  this  to 
yon  as  a  thing  that  you  might  have  supposed  or  said  quite 
untruly,  because  jou  think  so  badly  of  me." 

"  I  never  said  you  were  Satan,  or  thought  it.  I  don't 
think  of  you  in  that  way  at  all.  My  thoughts  of  you  are 
quite  cold,  except  when  you  affront  me.  Wliat,  did  j^ou 
come  digging  here  in  such  a  dress  entirel}''  because  of  me  ? " 

"Entirely.     To  see  you;    nothing  more.      The  smock- 


THE  C0N\T:RT.  401 

frock,  wliicli  I  saw  lianging  for  sale  as  I  came  along,  was 
an  after-tliought,  that  I  mightn't  be  noticed.  I  come  to 
protest  against  your  working  like  tliis." 

"  But  I  like  doing  it — it  is  for  my  father." 

"  Your  engagement  at  the  other  place  is  ended  ?  " 

''  Yes." 

'^  Wliere  are  you  going  to  next  ?  To  join  your  dear  hus- 
band ? " 

She  could  not  bear  the  humiliating  reminder.  "O — I 
don't  know,"  she  said,  bitterly.     "  I  have  no  husl^and  !  " 

''  It  is  quite  true — in  the  sense  you  mean.  But  you  have 
a  friend,  and  I  have  determined  that  you  shall  be  comfort- 
able in  spite  of  yourself.  When  you  get  down  to  your 
house  you  mil  see  what  I  have  sent  there  for  you." 

"O  Alec,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  give  me  anything  at 
all !  I  cannot  take  it  from  you !  I  don't  like — it  is  not 
right ! " 

"  It  is  right !  "  he  cried,  firmly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  see 
a  woman  Vv  hom  I  feel  so  tenderly  for  as  I  do  for  you  in 
trouble  without  trjdng  to  help  her." 

"  But  I  am  very  well  off  !  I  am  only  in  trouble  about — 
about — not  about  living  at  aU  !  "  She  turned,  and  desper- 
ately resumed  her  digging,  tears  dripping  upon  the  fork- 
handle  and  upon  the  clods. 

''About  the  children — voui'  brothers  and  sisters,"  he  re- 
sumed.     "  I've  been  thinking  of  them." 

Tess's  heart  quivered — he  was  touching  her  in  a  weak 
place.  He  had  divined  her  chief  anxiety.  Since  returning 
home  her  soul  had  gone  out  to  those  children  with  an  affec- 
tion that  was  passionate. 

"  If  yoiu'  mother  does  not  recover,  somebody  ought  to  do 
something  for  them ;  since  your  father  will  not  be  able  to 
do  much,  I  suppose." 

"  He  can  with  my  assistance.     He  must !  " 

"  And  with  mine." 

"  No,  sir !  " 

26 


402  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER\^LLES. 

'^  How  damned  foolish  this  is !  "  burst  out  D'Urberville. 
"  Why,  he  thinks  we  are  the  same  family ;  and  wUl  be  quite 
satisfied." 

'^  He  don't.     I've  undeceived  him." 

^'  The  more  fool  you  !  "  D'Urber\dlle  in  anger  went  away 
from  her  to  the  hedge,  where  he  pulled  oif  the  long  smock- 
frock  which  had  disguised  him  j  and  rolling  it  up  and  push- 
ing it  into  the  couch-fire,  went  away. 

Tess  could  not  get  on  with  her  digging  after  this ;  she 
felt  restless;  she  wondered  if  he  had  gone  back  to  her 
father's  house ;  and,  taking  the  fork  in  her  hand,  proceeded 
homewards. 

Some  twenty  yards  from  the  house  she  was  met  by  one 
of  her  sisters.  ''  O  Tess — what  do  you  think !  'Liza  Lu  is 
a-cr}dng,  and  there's  a  lot  of  folk  in  the  house,  and  mother 
is  a  good  deal  better,  but  they  think  father  is  dead !  " 

The  child  realized  the  grandem*  of  the  news,  but  not  as 
yet  its  sadness,  and  stood  looking  at  Tess  with  round-eyed 
importance,  till,  beholding  the  effect  it  produced  upon  her, 
she  said,  "  What,  Tess,  shan't  we  talk  to  father  never  no 
more  1  '^ 

"  But  father  was  only  a  Httle  bit  ill !  "  exclaimed  Tess, 
distractedlv. 

'Liza  Lu  came  up.  "  He  di^opped  down  just  now,  and 
the  doctor  who  was  there  for  mother  said  there  was  no 
chance  for  him,  because  his  heart  was  growed  in." 

Yes;  the  Durbeyfield  couple  had  changed  places;  the 
dying  one  was  out  of  danger,  and  the  indisposed  one  was 
dead.  The  news  meant  even  more  than  it  sounded.  Her 
father's  life  had  a  value  apart  from  his  personal  achieve- 
ments, or  perhaps  it  Avould  not  have  had  nnich.  It  was  the 
last  of  the  three  lives  for  whose  duration  the  house  and 
premises  were  held  under  a  lease ;  and  it  had  long  been 
coveted  by  the  tenant-farmer  for  his  regular  laborers,  who 
were  stinted  in  cottage  accommodation.  Moreover,  '4i\d- 
ers"  were  disapproved  of  in  villages  almost  as  much  as 


THE  CONl^RT.  403 

little  freeliolders,  because  of  tlieir  independence  of  manner, 
and  when  a  lease  determined  it  was  never  renewed. 

Thus  the  Diu'bevfields,  once  D'Urbervilles,  saw  descend- 
ing  upon  them  the  destiny  which,  no  doubt,  when  they  were 
among  the  Olympians  of  the  county,  they  had  caused  to 
descend  man}^  a  time,  and  severely  enough,  upon  the  heads 
of  such  landless  ones  as  they  themselves  were  now.  So  do 
flux  and  reflux — the  rhythm  of  change — alternate  and  per- 
sist in  everything  under  the  sky. 


LI. 

At  length  it  was  the  eve  of  Old  Lady-Day,  and  the  agri- 
cultural world  was  in  a  fever  of  mobility  such  as  only  oc- 
curs at  that  2:»articular  date  of  the  year.  It  is  a  day  of 
fulfilment ;  agreements  for  outdoor  ser\dce  during  the  en- 
suing year,  entered  into  at  Candlemas,  are  to  be  now  car- 
ried out.  The  laborers — or  "workfolk,"  as  they  used  to 
call  themselves  immemoriallv,  till  the  other  word  was  intro- 
duced  from  without — who  wish  to  remain  no  longer  in  old 
places  are  removing  to  the  new  farms. 

These  annual  migrations  from  farm  to  farm  were  on  the 
increase  here.  When  Tess's  mother  was  a  child,  the  major- 
ity of  the  field-folk  about  Marlott  had  remained  all  their 
lives  on  one  farm,  which  had  been  the  home  also  of  their 
fathers  and  gi-andfathers ;  but  latterly  the  desire  for  yearly 
removal  had  risen  to  a  high  pitch.  With  the  younger  fam- 
ilies it  was  a  pleasant  excitement  which  might  possibly  be 
an  advantage.  The  Eg;yTt  of  one  family  was  the  Land  of 
Promise  to  the  family  who  saw  it  from  a  distance,  till  by 
residence  there  it  became  in  turn  theii'  Egypt  also ;  and  so 
they  changed  and  changed. 

However,  aU  the  mutations  so  increasingly  discernible 


404  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

in  tillage  life  did  not  originate  entirely  in  the  agricnltural 
unrest.  A  depoj)ulation  was  also  going  on.  The  \illage 
had  formerly  contained,  side  by  side  mth  the  agricnltm-al 
laborers,  an  interesting  and  better-informed  class,  ranking 
distinctly  above  the  former — the  class  to  which  Tess's  father 
and  mother  had  belonged — and  including  the  carpenter,  the 
smith,  the  shoemaker,  the  huckster,  together  ^yith.  nonde- 
script workers  other  than  farm-laborers ;  a  set  of  peoj)le 
who  owed  a  certain  stability  of  aim  and  conduct  to  the  fact 
of  their  being  life-holders  like  Tess's  father,  or  copyholders, 
or,  occasionally,  small  freeholders.  But  as  the  long  hold- 
ings fell  in  they  were  seldom  again  let  to  similar  tenants, 
and  were  mostly  pulled  do^v^ai,  if  not  absolutely  required  by 
the  farmer  for  his  hands.  Cottagers  who  were  not  directly 
employed  on  the  land  were  looked  upon  with  disfavor  as  a 
rule,  and  the  banishment  of  some  starved  the  trade  of  others, 
who  were  thus  obhged  to  follow.  These  families,  who  had 
formed  the  backbone  of  the  \Tllage  life  in  the  past,  who 
were  the  depositaries  of  the  village  traditions,  had  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  large  centres ;  the  process,  hnmorously  desig- 
nated by  statisticians  as  "  the  tendency  of  the  rural  popula- 
tion towards  the  large  to^Tis,"  being  really  the  tendency  of 
water  to  flow  up-hill  when  forced  by  machinery.  The  cot- 
tage accommodation  at  Marlott  having  been  in  this  manner 
considerably  curtailed  by  demolitions,  every  house  which 
remained  standing  was  required  by  the  agriculturist  for  his 
work-people.  Ever  since  the  occurrence  of  the  event  whicli 
had  cast  such  a  shadow  over  Tess's  life,  the  Durbevfield 
family  (whose  descent  was  not  credited)  had  been  tacitly 
looked  on  as  one  which  would  have  to  go  when  their  lease 
ended,  if  only  in  the  interests  of  morality.  It  was,  indeed, 
quite  true  that  this  household  had  not  been  shining  exam- 
ples, either  of  temperance,  soberness,  or  chastity.  The 
father,  and  even  the  mother,  had  got  drunk  at  times,  the 
younger  children  seldom  had  gone  to  church,  and  the  eldest 
daughter  had  made  queer  uui<uis.     By  some  means  the  vil- 


THE  CONVERT.  405 

lage  had  to  be  kept  pure.  So,  on  tliis  tlie  first  Lady-Day 
on  which  the  Dui'beyfiekls  were  expellable,  the  house,  being 
roomy,  was  required  for  a  carter  wdth  a  large  family ;  and 
Widow  Joan,  her  daughters  Tess  and  'Liza  Lu,  the  boy 
Abraham  (now  the  representative  of  the  D'Urberville  male 
line),  and  the  younger  children,  had  to  go  elsewhere. 

On  the  evening  preceding  their  removal  it  was  getting 
dark  betimes,  by  reason  of  a  drizzling  rain  which  blurred 
the  sky.  As  it  was  the  last  night  they  would  spend  in  the 
village  which  had  been  their  home  and  birthplace,  Mrs. 
Durbe^^field,  'Liza  Lu,  and  Abraham  had  gone  out  to  bid 
some  friends  good-by,  and  Tess  v/as  keeping  house  till  they 
should  return. 

She  was  kneeling  in  the  window-bench,  her  face  close  to 
the  casement,  where  an  outer  pane  of  rain-water  was  sliding 
dow^i  the  inner  pane  of  glass.  Her  eyes  rested  on  the  web 
of  a  spider,  probably  starved  long  ago,  which  had  been 
mistakenly  placed  in  a  corner  where  no  flies  ever  came,  and 
sliivered  in  the  slight  draught  through  the  casement.  Tess 
was  reflecting  on  the  position  of  the  household,  in  which 
she  perceived  her  own  evil  influence.  Had  she  not  come 
home,  her  mother  and  the  children  might  probably  have 
been  allowed  to  stay  on  as  weekly  tenants.  But  she  had 
been  seen  almost  immediately  on  her  return  by  some  people 
of  scrupulous  character  and  great  influence :  they  had  seen 
her  idling  in  the  churchyard,  restoring  as  well  as  she  could 
a  baby's  grave.  By  this  means  they  had  found  that  she 
was  living  here  again ;  her  mother  was  scolded  for  "  har- 
boring "  her ;  sharp  words  had  ensued  from  Joan,  who  had 
independently  offered  to  leave  at  once ;  she  had  been  taken 
at  her  word ;  and  here  was  the  result. 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  come  home,"  said  Tess  to  herself, 
bitterly. 

She  was  so  intent  upon  these  thoughts  that  she  hardly  at 
first  took  note  of  a  man  in  a  white  mackintosh  whom  she 
saw  riding  down  the  street.     Possibly  it  was  omng  to  her 


406  •  TESS  OF   THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

face  being  near  to  the  pane  that  he  saw  her  so  quicklj' ,  and 
directed  his  horse  so  close  to  the  cottage  front  that  his 
hoofs  were  almost  upon  the  narrow  border  for  plants  grow- 
ing under  the  wall.  It  was  not  till  he  touched  the  window 
mth  his  riding- whip  that  she  observed  him.  The  rain  had 
nearly  ceased,  and  she  opened  the  casement  in  obedience 
to  his  gesture. 

"Didn't  you  see  me?"  asked  D'Urber^dlle. 

"  I  was  not  attending/'  she  said.  "  I  heard  you,  I  beheve, 
though  I  fancied  it  was  a  carriage  and  horses.  I  was  in  a 
sort  of  dream." 

"Ah  !  you  heard  the  D'Urberville  Coach,  perhaps.  You 
know  the  legend,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No.  My — somebody  was  going  to  tell  it  me  once,  but 
didn't." 

"  If  you  are  a  genuine  D'Urberville  I  ought  not  to  tell 
you  either,  I  suppose.  As  for  me,  I'm  a  sham  one,  so  it 
doesn't  matter.  It  is  rather  dismal.  It  is  that  this  sound 
of  a  non-existent  coach  can  only  be  heard  by  one  of  D'Ur- 
berville  blood,  and  it  is  held  to  be  of  ill-omen  to  the  one 
who  hears  it.  It  has  to  do  with  a  mui^der,  committed  by 
one  of  the  famil}^  centuries  ago." 

"Now  you  have  begun  it,  finish  it." 

"Very  weU.  One  of  the  family  is  said  to  have  abducted 
some  beautiful  woman,  who  tried  to  escape  from  the  coach 
in  which  he  was  carrying  her  off,  and  in  the  struggle  he 
killed  her — or  she  killed  him — I  forget  which.  Such  is  the 
tale.  I  see  that  your  tubs  and  buckets  are  packed  together. 
Going  away,  aren't  you  ? " 

"Yes,  to-morrow — Old  Lad,y-Day." 

"  I  heard  vou  were,  but  could  hardlv  believe  it :  it  seems 
SO  sudden.     Why  is  it  ? " 

"Father's  was  the  last  life  on  the  property,  and  when 
that  dropped  we  had  no  further  right  to  bide.  Though  we 
might,  perhaps,  have  stayed  as  weekly  tenants — if  it  had 
not  been  for  me." 

"What  about  3^ou?" 


THE  CONVERT.  407 

''  I  am  not  a — l^riglit  example." 

D'Urberville's  face  flushed. 

"  What  a  blasted  shame  !  Miserable  snobs  !  May  theh^ 
dii^ty  souls  be  burned  to  cinders/'  he  exclaimed  in  tones 
of  fierce  resentment.  ^^  That's  why  you  are  going,  is  it  ? 
Tui-ned  out  ? " 

''We  are  not  turned  out  exactly;  but  as  they  said  we 
should  have  to  go  soon,  it  was  best  to  go  now  everybody 
was  moving,  because  there  are  better  chances.'' 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ? " 

"  Kingsbere.  We  have  taken  rooms  there.  Mother  is  so 
foolish  about  father's  people  that  she  will  go  there." 

''  But  your  mother's  family  are  not  fit  for  lodgings,  and 
in  a  little  hole  of  a  town  like  that !  Now,  why  not  come  to 
my  garden-house  at  Trantridge?  There  are  hardly  any 
poultry  now  since  my  mother's  death ;  but  there's  the  house, 
as  you  know  it,  and  the  garden.  It  can  be  whitewashed  in 
a  da}^,  and  your  mother  can  live  there  quite  comfortably ; 
and  I  mil  put  the  children  to  a  good  school.  Really  I  ought 
to  do  something  for  you  !  " 

"  But  we  have  already  taken  the  rooms  at  Kingsbere ! " 
she  declared.     "  And  we  can  wait  there " 

"Wait,  what  for?  For  that  nice  husband,  no  doubt. 
Now  look  here,  Tess.  I  know  what  men  are,  and  bearing 
in  mind  the  grounds  of  your  separation,  I  am  quite  positive 
he  will  never  make  it  up  with  you.  Now,  though  I  have 
been  your  enemy,  I  am  your  friend,  even  if  joii  won't  be- 
lieve it.  Come  to  this  cottage  of  mine.  We'll  get  up  a  regu- 
lar colony  of  fowls,  and  your  mother  can  attend  to  them 
excellently ;  and  the  children  can  go  to  school." 

Tess  breathed  more  and  more  quickly,  and  at  length  she 
said,  "  How  do  I  know  that  you  would  do  all  this  ?  Your 
views  mav  change — and  then — we  should  be — mv  mother 
would  be — homeless  again." 

"Oh  no — no.  I  would  guarantee  you  against  such  as 
that  in  A\i'iting,  if  necessary.     Think  it  over." 

Tess  sliook  her  head.     But  D'Urbervdlle  persisted;  she 


408  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

had  seldom  seen  hiin  so  determined ;  lie  would  not  take  a 
negative.  "  Please  just  tell  your  motlier,"  he  said,  in  em- 
phatic tones.  ^'  It  is  her  business  to  judge — not  yours.  1 
shall  get  the  house  swept  out  and  whitened  to-morrow 
morning,  and  fli'es  ht ;  and  it  will  be  dry  by  the  evening, 
so  that  you  can  come  straight  there.  Now  mind,  I  shall 
expect  you." 

Tess  again  shook  her  head,  her  tlu^oat  swelling  with  com- 
plicated emotion.     She  could  not  look  up  at  D'Urberville. 

"  I  owe  you  something  for  the  past,  you  know,"  he  re- 
sumed. ^'And  you  cui^ed  me,  too,  of  that  craze  j  so  I  am 
glad " 

"  I  would  rather  you  had  kept  the  craze,  so  that  you  had 
kept  the  practice  which  went  with  it !  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  of  repaying  you  a  little. 
To-morrow  I  shall  expect  to  hear  your  mother's  goods  un- 
loading. .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand  on  it  now — dear,  beauti- 
ful Tess ! " 

With  the  last  sentence  he  had  di'opped  his  voice  to  a  mur- 
mur, and  put  his  hand  in  at  the  liaK-opened  casement.  She 
pulled  the  stay-bar  quickly,  and,  in  doing  so,  caught  his 
arm  between  the  casement  and  the  stone  muUion. 

"Damnation — you  are  very  cruel!"  he  said,  snatching 
out  his  arm.  "No,  no  ! — I  know  you  didn't  do  it  on  pur- 
pose. Well,  I  shall  expect  you,  or  your  mother  and  the 
children,  at  least." 

"  I  shall  not  come — I  have  plenty  of  money  !  "  she  cried. 

"Where?" 

"  At  my  father-in-law's,  if  I  ask  for  it. 

"//"you  ask  for  it.  But  you  won't,  Tess;  I  know  you 5 
you'll  never  ask  for  it — you'll  starve  first !  " 

With  these  words  he  rode  off.  Just  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  he  met  the  man  witli  the  paint-pot,  who  asked  him 
if  he  had  deserted  the  brethren. 

"  You  go  to  the  devil !  "  said  D'Urberville. 

Tess  remained  where  she  was  a  long  while,  till  a  sudden 


THE  CONVERT.  409 

rebellious  sense  of  injustice  caused  tlie  region  of  lier  eyes 
to  swell  with  tlie  rush  of  hot  tears  thither.  Her  husband, 
Angel  Clare  hiniseK,  had,  like  others,  dealt  out  hard  meas- 
ui*e  to  her ;  surely  he  had  !  She  had  never  before  admitted 
such  a  thought ;  but  he  had  surely !  Never  in  her  life — 
she  could  swear  it  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul — had  she 
intended  to  do  wrong ;  yet  these  hard  judgments  had  come. 
Whatever  her  sins,  they  were  not  sins  of  intention,  but  of 
inadvertence,  and  why  should  she  have  been  punished  so 
persistently  ? 

She  passionately  seized  the  fii'st  piece  of  paper  that  came 
to  hand,  and  scribbled  the  following  lines : 

'^  O,  wh}^  have  you  treated  me  so  monstrously.  Angel !  I 
do  not  deserve  it.  I  have  thought  it  all  over  carefully,  and 
I  can  never,  never  forgive  you !  You  know  that  I  did  not 
intend  to  wi'ong  you — why  have  you  so  wronged  me !  You 
are  cmel,  cruel  indeed  !  I  will  try  to  forget  you.  It  is  all 
injustice  I  have  received  at  yoiu'  hands  ! — T." 

She  watched  till  the  postman  passed  by,  ran  out  to  him 
^\'ith  her  epistle,  and  then  again  took  her  listless  place  in- 
side the  T\dndow-panes. 

It  was  just  as  weU  to  write  Like  that  as  to  ^Tite  tenderly. 
How  could  he  give  way  to  entreaty  ?  The  facts  had  not 
changed :  there  was  no  new  event  to  alter  his  opinion. 

It  grew  darker,  the  fire-light  shining  over  the  room.  The 
two  biggest  of  the  younger  children  had  gone  out  with  their 
mother ;  the  four  smallest,  their  ages  ranging  from  three 
and  a  half  years  to  eleven,  all  in  black  frocks,  were  gathered 
round  the  hearth  babbling  their  own  little  subjects.  Tess 
at  length  joined  them,  without  lighting  a  candle. 

''  This  is  the  last  night  that  we  shall  sleep  here,  dears,  in 
the  house  where  we  were  born,"  she  said,  quickly.  '^We 
ought  to  think  of  it,  oughtn't  we  ? " 

They  all  became  silent ;  with  the  impressibility  of  their 


410  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

age,  they  were  ready  to  burst  into  tears  at  tlie  ]3ictnre  of 
finality  she  had  conjnred  np,  though  all  the  day  hitherto 
they  had  been  rejoicing  in  the  idea  of  a  new  place.  Tess 
changed  the  subject. 

^'  Sing  to  me,  dears/'  she  said. 

"  What  shall  we  sing  ? " 

"  Anything  you  know ;  I  don't  mind  what." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause ;  it  was  broken,  fii'st,  by 
one  little  tentatiye  note  ;  then  a  second  yoice  strengthened 
it,  and  a  thii'd  and  a  fourth  chimed  in  in  unison,  with  words 
they  had  learnt  at  the  Sunday-school : 

Here  we  suffer  grief  and  pain, 
Here  we  meet  to  part  again ; 
In  heaven  we  part  no  more. 

The  four  sang  on  with  the  phlegmatic  passiyity  of  per- 
sons who  had  settled  the  question  a  long  time  ago,  and, 
there  being  no  mistake  about  it,  felt  that  fm-ther  thought 
was  not  required.  With  features  strained  hard  to  enunciate 
the  syllables,  they  continued  to  regard  the  centre  of  the 
flickering  fii'e,  the  notes  of  the  youngest  straying  oyer  into 
the  pauses  of  the  rest. 

Tess  tiu'ned  from  them,  and  went  to  the  window  again. 
Darkness  had  now  fallen  mthout,  but  she  put  her  face  to 
the  pane  as  though  to  peer  into  the  gloom.  It  was  really 
to  hide  her  tears.  If  she  could  only  belieye  what  the  chil- 
dren were  singing ;  if  she  were  only  sure,  how  different  all 
would  now  be ;  how  confidently  she  would  leaye  them  to 
Proyidence  and  their  future  kingdom  !  But,  in  default  of 
that,  it  behooyed  her  to  do  something ;  to  be  their  Pro\d- 
dence  -,  for  to  Tess,  as  to  some  few  millions  of  others,  there 
was  ghastly  satire  in  the  poet's  lines ; 

Not  in  utter  nakedness 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come. 


THE   CONVERT.  411 

To  her  and  her  like,  birth  itself  was  an  ordeal  of  degi'ading 
personal  compulsion,  whose  gratuitousness  nothing  in  the 
result  seemed  to  justify,  and  at  best  could  only  palliate. 

In  the  shades  of  the  wet  road  she  soon  discerned  her 
mother  with  'Liza  Lu  and  Abraham.  Mrs.  Durl)eyfield's 
pattens  clicked  up  to  the  door,  and  Tess  opened  it. 

"  I  see  the  tracks  of  a  horse  outside  the  window,"  said 
Joan.     ^'  Hev  somebody  called  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Tess. 

The  children  by  the  fire  looked  gi^avely  at  her,  and  one 
murmured,  "Why,  Tess,  the  gentleman  a-horseback!  " 

"  He  didn't  call,"  said  Tess.    "  He  spoke  to  me  in  passing.'^ 

"T\Tio  was  the  gentleman?"  asked  her  mother.  "  Yoiu' 
husband  ? " 

"  No,  no ;  he  will  never,  never  come,"  answered  Tess,  in 
stony  hopelessness. 

"  Then  who  was  it  ? " 

"  0,  you  needn't  ask.  YouVe  seen  him  before,  and  so 
have  I." 

"  All !     What  did  he  say  ? "  said  Joan,  curiously. 

"  I  will  tell  you  when  we  are  settled  in  our  lodgings  at 
Kingsbere  to-morrow — eveiy  word." 


LH. 

During  the  small  hours  of  the  next  morning,  while  it 
was  still  dark,  dwellers  near  the  highways  were  conscious 
of  a  disturbance  of  their  night's  rest  by  rumbling  noises, 
intermittently  continuing  till  dayHght — noises  as  certain  to 
recur  in  this  particular  first  week  of  the  month  as  the  voice 
of  the  cuckoo  in  the  third  week  of  the  same.  They  were 
the  preliminaries  of  the  general  removal,  the  passing  of  the 
empty  wagons  and  teams  to  fetch  the  goods  of  the  migrat- 


412  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

ing  families ;  for  it  was  always  by  tlie  vehicle  of  tlie  farmer 
who  required  his  services  that  the  hired  man  was  conveyed 
to  his  destination.  That  this  might  be  accomphshed  within 
the  day  was  the  explanation  of  the  reverberation  occurring 
so  soon  after  midnight,  the  aim  of  the  carters  being  to  reach 
the  door  of  the  outgoing  households  by  six  o'clock,  when 
the  loading  of  theii*  movables  at  once  began. 

But  to  Tess  and  her  mother's  household  no  such  anxious 
farmer  sent  his  team.  They  were  only  women,  they  were 
not  regular  laborers ;  they  were  not  particularly  required 
anywhere ;  hence  they  had  to  hire  a  wagon  at  theii'  own 
expense,  and  got  nothing  sent  gratuitously. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Tess,  when  she  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow that  morning,  to  find  that,  though  the  weather  was 
windy  and  lowering,  it  did  not  rain,  and  that  the  w^agon 
had  come.  A  wet  Lady-Day  was  a  spectre  which  removing 
families  never  forgot ;  damp  furniture,  damp  bedding,  damp 
clothing  accompanied  it,  and  left  a  train  of  ills. 

Her  mother,  'Liza  Lu,  and  Abraham  were  also  awake, 
but  the  younger  children  were  let  sleep  on.  The  four 
breakfasted  by  the  thin  light,  and  the  "house-ridding" 
was  taken  in  hand. 

It  proceeded  mth  some  cheerfulness,  a  friendly  neighbor 
or  two  assisting.  When  the  large  articles  of  furniture  had 
been  packed  in  2)osition  a  ciix'ular  nest  was  made  of  the 
beds  and  bedding,  in  which  Joan  Durbeyfield  and  the  young 
children  were  to  sit  through  the  journey.  After  loading 
there  was  a  long  delay  before  the  horses  were  brought,  these 
having  been  unharnessed  during  the  ridding ;  but  at  length, 
about  two  o'clock,  the  whole  was  under  way,  the  cooking- 
pot  swinging  from  the  axle  of  the  wagon,  Mrs.  Durbeyfield 
and  family  at  the  top,  the  matron  having  in  her  lap,  to  pre- 
vent injury  to  its  works,  the  head  of  the  clock,  which,  at 
any  exceptional  lui'cli  of  the  wagon,  struck  one,  or  one  and 
a  half,  in  tliin  tones.  Tess  and  the  next  eldest  girl  walked 
alongside  till  they  were  out  of  the  village. 


THE  CONVERT.  413 

Tliey  had  called  on  a  few  neighbors  that  morning  and  the 
previous  evening,  and  some  came  to  see  them  off,  all  wish- 
ing them  well,  though,  in  their  secret  hearts,  hardly  expect- 
ing welfare  possible  to  such  a  family,  harmless  people  as 
the  Durbeyfields  were  to  all  except  themselves.  Soon  the 
equipage  began  to  ascend  to  higher  ground,  and  the  wind 
grew  keener  ^^itli  the  change  of  level  and  soil. 

The  day  being  the  sixth  of  April,  the  Diu-bey field  wagon 
met  many  other  wagons  "with  families  on  the  summit  of  the 
load,  which  was  built  on  a  well-nigh  unvarying  principle, 
as  peculiar,  prol3al)ly,  to  the  rural  laborer  as  the  hexagon 
to  the  bee.  The  groundwork  of  the  arrangement  was  the 
position  of  the  family  di'esser,  which,  with  its  shining  han- 
dles, and  finger  marks,  and  domestic  e\ddences  thick  upon 
it,  stood  importantly  in  front,  over  the  tails  of  the  shaft- 
horses,  in  its  erect  and  natural  position,  like  some  Ark  of 
the  Covenant  which  must  not  be  carried  slio^htingiv. 

Some  of  the  households  were  lively,  some  mournful ;  some 
were  stopping  at  the  doors  of  wayside  inns ;  where,  in  due 
time,  the  house  of  Durbej^eld  also  drew  up  to  bait  horses 
and  refresh  the  travellers. 

During  the  halt  Tess's  eyes  fell  upon  a  three-pint  blue 
mug,  which  was  ascending  and  descending  through  the  air 
to  and  from  the  feminine  section  of  a  household,  sitting  on 
the  summit  of  a  load  that  had  also  drawm  up  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  same  inn.  She  followed  one  of  the  mug-'s 
journeys  upward,  and  perceived  it  to  be  clasped  by  hands 
whose  owners  she  well  knew.   Tess  went  towards  the  wac^on. 

^^  Marian  and  Izz  I  "  she  cried  to  the  ffirls,  for  it  was  tliev, 
sitting-  vdih  the  movins^  familv  at  whose  house  thev  had 
lodged.  ^'Ai-e  you  house-ridding  to-day,  like  everybody 
else  f  '^ 

The}^  were,  they  said.  It  had  been  too  rough  a  life  for 
them  at  Flintcomb-Ash,  and  thev  had  come  awav,  almost 
mthout  notice,  leaving  Groby  to  prosecute  them  if  he  chose. 
They  told  Tess  their  destination,  and  Tess  told  them  hers. 


414  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Marian  leaned  over  the  load,  and  lowered  her  voice.  "  Do 
ye  know  that  the  gentleman  who  follows  'ee — you'll  guess 
who  I  mean — came  to  ask  for  'ee  at  Fhntcomb  after  you 
had  gone  ?  We  didn't  tell'n  where  you  was,  knowmg  you 
wouldn't  wish  to  see  him."' 

"  Ah — but  I  did  see  him,"  Tess  murmured.  '^  He  found 
me." 

"  And  do  he  know  where  you  be  going  ? " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Husband  come  back  ? " 

"  No." 

She  bade  her  acquaintance  good-by — for  the  respective 
carters  had  now^  come  out  from  the  inn — and  the  two 
wagons  resumed  then*  journey  in  opposite  directions;  the 
vehicle  whereon  sat  Marian,  Izz,  and  the  ploughman's  fam- 
ily with  whom  they  had  thrown  in  their  lot,  being  brightly 
painted,  and  drawn  by  three  powerful  horses  with  shining 
brass  ornaments  on  their  harness;  while  the  wagon  on 
w^hich  Mrs.  Durbeyfield  and  her  family  rode  was  a  creaking 
erection  that  w^ould  scarcely  bear  the  weight  of  the  super- 
incumbent load ;  one  which  had  known  no  paint  since  it 
was  made,  and  drawn  by  two  horses  only.  The  contrast 
well  marked  the  difference  between  being  fetched  by  a 
thri\dng  farmer  and  conveying  one's  self  whither  no  hii-er 
waited  one's  coming. 

The  distance  was  great,  and  though  they  had  stai-ted  so 
early  it  was  quite  late  in  the  day  when  they  tmiied  the 
flank  of  an  eminence  which  formed  part  of  the  upland  called 
Greenhill.  While  the  horses  stood  to  stale  and  breathe 
themselves  Tess  looked  around.  Under  the  hill,  and  just 
ahead  of  them,  was  the  half-dead  townlet  of  their  pilgrim- 
age, Kingsbere,  where  lay  those  ancestors  of  whom  her 
father  had  spoken  and  sung  to  painfulness :  Kingsbere,  the 
spot  of  aU  spots  in  the  world  which  could  be  considered  the 
D'Urbervilles'  home,  since  they  had  resided  there  full  five 
hundred  years. 


THE  CONVERT.  415 

A  man  could  be  seen  advancing  from  the  outskirts  to- 
wards them,  and  when  he  beheld  the  nature  of  theu'  wagon- 
load  he  quickened  his  steps. 

^'  You  be  the  woman  they  call  Mrs.  Durbe^^field,  I  reckon  ?  '^ 
he  said  to  Tess's  mother,  who  had  descended  to  walk  the 
remainder  of  the  way. 

She  nodded.  "  Though  widow  of  the  late  Sir  John  D'Ur- 
berville,  poor  nobleman,  if  I  cared  for  my  rights ;  and  re- 
tui-ning  to  the  domain  of  m}^  knight's  forefathers.'^ 

"  O  ?  "Well,  I  know  nothing  about  that  j  but  if  you  be 
Mrs.  Durbey field,  I  am  sent  to  tell  'ee  that  the  rooms  you 
wanted  be  let.  We  didn't  know  you  was  coming  till  we 
got  youi*  letter  this  morning — when  'twas  too  late.  But  no 
doubt  you  can  get  other  lodgings  somewhere." 

The  man  had  noticed  the  face  of  Tess,  which  had  become 
ash-pale  at  his  intelligence.  Her  mother  looked  hopelessly 
at  fault.  "What  shall  we  do  now,  Tess?"  she  said,  bitterly. 
^'  Here's  a  welcome  to  your  ancestors'  lands !  However, 
let's  try  farther." 

They  moved  on  into  the  town,  and  tried  with  all  their 
might,  Tess  remaining  with  the  wagon  to  take  care  of  the 
childi*en  whilst  her  mother  and  'Liza  Lu  made  inquiries. 
At  the  last  return  of  Joan  to  the  vehicle,  an  lioui*  later, 
when  her  search  for  acconnnodation  had  still  been  fruitless, 
the  driver  of  the  wagon  said  the  goods  must  be  unloaded, 
as  he  was  bound  to  return  part  of  the  way  that  night. 

«■  Very  well — unload  it  here,"  said  Joan,  recklessly.  "  I'll 
get  shelter  somewhere.'' 

The  wagon  had  drawn  up  under  the  churchyard  wall,  in 
a  spot  screened  from  view,  and  the  driver,  nothing  loth, 
soon  hauled  down  the  poor  battered  heap  of  household 
goods.  She  paid  him  with  ahnost  her  last  shilling,  and  he 
moved  off  and  left  them,  only  too  glad  to  get  out  of  further 
dealings  with  such  a  famih\  It  was  a  diy  night,  and  he 
guessed  that  they  would  come  to  no  harm. 

Tess  gazed  desperately  at  the  pile  of  furniture.   The  cold 


416  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

sunlight  of  tliis  spring  evening  peered  invidiously  npon  tl.c 
crocks  and  kettles,  upon  the  bunches  of  di'ied  herbs  shiver- 
ing in  the  breeze,  uj)on  the  brass  handles  of  the  dresser, 
npon  the  wicker-cradle  they  had  all  been  rocked  in,  and 
npon  the  well-rubbed  clock-case,  all  of  which  gave  out  the 
reproachful  gleam  of  indoor  articles  exposed  to  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  a  roofless  exposure  for  which  they  w^re  never  made. 
Eound  about  were  deparked  hills  and  slopes — now  cut  up 
into  little  paddocks — and  the  gi^een  foundations  that  showed 
where  the  D'Urberville  mansion  once  had  stood ;  also  an 
outlying  stretch  of  Egdon  Heath  that  had  always  belonged 
to  the  estate.  Hard  by,  the  aisle  of  the  church  called  the 
D'Urber^dlle  Aisle  looked  on  imperturbably. 

''  Isn't  your  family  vault  your  own  freehold  ?i'  said  Tess's 
mother,  as  she  returned  from  a  reconnoitre  of  the  church 
and  graveyard.  "  Why,  of  course  'tis,  and  that's  where  we 
will  camp,  girls,  till  the  place  of  your  ancestors  finds  us  a 
roof !  Now,  Tess  and  'Liza  and  Abraham,  you  help  me. 
We'll  make  a  nest  for  these  children,  and  then  we'll  have 
another  look  round." 

Tess  listlessly  lent  a  hand,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  old  four-post  bedstead  was  dissociated  from  the  heap  of 
goods,  and  erected  under  the  south  wall  of  the  church,  the 
part  of  the  l)uilding  known  as  the  D'Urberville  Aisle,  be- 
neath which  the  huge  vaults  lay.  Over  the  tester  of  the 
bedstead  was  a  beautifully  traceried  window,  of  many  lights, 
its  date  being  the  fifteenth  century.  It  was  called  the  D'Ur- 
berville Window,  and  in  the  upper  part  could  be  discerned 
heraldic  emblems  like  those  on  Durl^ey field's  old  seal  and 
spoon. 

Joan  drew  the  curtains  round  the  bed  so  as  to  make  an 
excellent  tent  of  it,  and  put  the  smaller  childi'en  inside. 
"  If  it  comes  to  the  worst  we  can  sleep  there  too,  for  one 
night,"  she  said.  "  But  let  us  try  farther  on,  and  get  some- 
thing for  the  dears  to  eat !  O  Tess,  what's  the  use  of  your 
playing  at  marrying  gentlemen,  if  it  leaves  us  like  this  !  " 


"'what    shall    "WE    DO    NOW,   TESS  ?'" 


THE  CONVERT.  417 

Accompanied  by  'Liza  Lii  and  tlie  boy,  slie  again  ascended 
the  little  lane  wliich  secluded  the  clmrch  from  the  townlet. 
As  soon  as  they  got  into  the  street  they  beheld  a  man  on 
horseback  gazing  up  and  do\\Ti.  'Ah — I'm  looking  for 
you,"  he  said,  riding  up  to  them.  "  This  is  indeed  a  family 
gathering  on  the  liistoric  spot !  " 

It  was  Alec  D'Urberville.     "  Where  is  Tess  ?  '^  he  asked. 

Personally  Joan  had  no  liking  for  Alec.  She  cui'sorily 
signified  the  direction  of  the  chui'ch,  and  went  on,  D'Urber- 
ville saying  that  he  would  see  them  again,  in  case  they 
should  be  again  unsuccessful  in  their  search  for  a  house,  of 
which  he  had  just  heard.  When  they  had  gone  D'Urber- 
ville rode  to  the  inn,  and  shortly  after  came  out  on  foot. 

In  the  interim  Tess,  left  A\dth  the  children  inside  the  bed- 
stead, remained  talking  with  them  a  while,  till,  seeing  that 
no  more  could  be  done  to  make  them  comfortable  just  then, 
she  walked  about  the  chureh^^ard,  now  beginning  to  be  em- 
browned by  the  shades  of  nightfall.  The  door  of  the  church 
was  unfastened,  and  she  entered  it  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life. 

Within  the  windoAv  under  which  the  bedstead  stood  were 
the  tombs  of  the  family,  covering  in  their  dates  several  cen- 
turies. They  were  canopied,  altar-shaped,  and  plain ;  their 
carvings  being  defaced  and  broken ;  their  brasses  torn  from 
the  matrices,  the  rivet-holes  remaining  like  inarten-holes  in 
a  sand-cliff.  Of  all  the  reminders  that  she  had  ever  received 
that  her  people  were  socially  extinct  there  was  none  so 
forcible  as  this  spoliation. 

She  drew  near  to  a  dark  stone  on  which  was  inscribed : 

€);5tinm  0tpulcf)ri  anticiua^  familiar  £>'(^vhtvMt. 

Tess  did  not  read  Church-Latin  like  a  Cardinal,  but  she 
knew  that  this  was  the  door  of  her  ancestral  sepulchre,  and 
that  the  tall  knights  of  whom  her  father  had  chanted  in  hiis 
cups  lay  inside. 
27 


418  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

She  musingly  turned  to  mtlidi'aw,  passing  near  an  altar- 
tomb,  the  oldest  of  them  all,  on  which  was  a  recumbent 
figm^e.  In  the  dusk  she  had  not  noticed  it  before,  and  would 
hardly  have  noticed  it  now  but  for  an  odd  fanc}^  that  the 
effigy  moved.  As  soon  as  she  drew  close  to  it  she  discov- 
ered all  in  a  moment  that  the  figure  was  a  li\dng  person ; 
and  the  shock  to  her  sense  of  not  having  been  alone  was  so 
violent  that  she  was  quite  overcome,  and  sank  down  nigh 
to  fainting,  not,  however,  till  she  had  recognized  Alec  D'Ur- 
berville  in  the  form. 

He  leapt  off  the  slab  and  supported  her. 

"  I  saw  you  come  in,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  and  would  not 
interrupt  your  meditations.  A  family  gatheiing,  is  it  not, 
with  these  old  fellows  under  us  here  ?    Listen." 

He  stamped  with  his  heel  heavily  on  the  floor,  whereupon 
there  arose  a  hollow  echo  from  below. 

"  That  shook  them  a  bit,  I'll  warrant ! "  he  continued. 
''And  you  thought  I  was  the  mere  stone  reproduction  of 
one  of  them.  But  no.  The  old  order  changeth.  The  little 
finger  of  the  sham  D'Urber\iUe  can  do  more  for  you  than 
the  whole  djmasty  of  the  real  underneath.  .  .  .  Now  com- 
mand me.     What  shall  I  do  ? " 

''  Go  away  !  "  she  murmured. 

"  I  will — I'U  look  for  your  mother,"  said  he,  blandly.  But 
in  passing  her  he  whispered :  "  Mind  this ;  you'll  be  civil 
vet ! " 

^Tien  he  was  gone  she  bent  down  upon  the  entrance  to 
the  vaults,  and  said : 

"  Wliy  am  I  on  the  ■\\Tong  side  of  this  door !  '^ 

In  the  meantime  Marian  and  Izz  Huett  had  journeyed 
onward  with  the  chattels  of  the  ploughman  in  the  direction 
of  their  land  of  Canaan — the  Egypt  of  some  other  family 
who  had  left  it  only  that  morning.  But  the  girls  did  not 
for  a  long  time  think  of  where  they  were  going.  Their 
talk  was  of  Angel  Clare  and  Tess,  and  her  persistent  lover, 


THE   CONVERT.  419 

whose  connection  with  Tess's  previous  history  they  had 
partly  heard  and  partly  guessed  ere  this. 

"  'Tisn't  as  though  she  had  never  known  him  afore/'  said 
Marian.  "  His  having  won  her  once  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world.  'Twould  be  a  thousand  pities  if  he  were 
to  tole  her  away  again.  Mr.  Clare  can  never  be  anything 
to  uSj  Izz ;  and  why  should  we  grudge  him  to  her,  and  not 
try  to  mend  this  quarrel?  If  he  could  on'y  know  what 
straits  she's  put  to,  and  what's  hovering  round,  he  might 
come  to  take  care  of  his  own." 

"  Could  we  let  him  know  ? " 

They  thought  of  this  all  the  way  to  their  destination ; 
but  the  bustle  of  re-establishment  in  their  new  place  took 
up  all  their  attention  then.  But  when  they  were  settled,  a 
month  later,  they  heard  of  Clare's  approaching  return, 
though  they  had  learnt  nothing  more  of  Tess.  Upon  that, 
agitated  anew  by  theii'  attacliment  to  him,  yet  honorably 
disposed  to  her,  Marian  uncorked  the  penny  ink-bottle  they 
shared,  and  a  few  lines  wxre  concocted  between  the  two 
gii'ls. 

"  Hoxor'd  Sir, — 

"  Look  to  your  Wife  if  you  do  love  her  as  much  as  she 
do  love  you.  For  she  is  sore  put  to  by  an  Enemy  in  the 
shape  of  a  Friend.  Sir,  there  is  one  near  her  who  ought  to 
be  Away.  A  woman  should  not  be  try'd  beyond  her 
Strength,  and  continual  dropping  ^dll  wear  ^way  a  Stone 
— ay,  more — a  Diamond. 

^^  From  Two  Well- Wishers." 

This  they  addressed  to  Angel  Clare  at  the  only  place  they 
had  ever  heard  him  to  be  connected  ^\dth,  Emminster  Vicar- 
age ;  after  which  they  continued  in  a  mood  of  emotional 
exaltation  at  their  own  generosity,  which  made  them  sing 
in  hysterical  snatches  and  weep  at  the  same  time, 


FULFILMENT. 


LIII. 

It  was  evening  at  Emminster  Vicarage.  The  two  cus- 
tomary shaded  candles  were  burning  in  the  vicar's  study, 
but  he  had  not  been  sitting  there.  Occasionally  he  came 
in,  stirred  the  small  fire  which  sufficed  for  the  increasing 
mildness  of  spring,  and  went  out  again ;  sometimes  pausing 
at  the  front  door,  going  on  to  the  di'avvdng-room,  then  re- 
turning again  to  the  front  door. 

It  faced  westward,  and  though  gloom  i3revailed  indoors, 
there  was  stiU  light  enough  without  to  see  with  distinctness. 
Mrs.  Clare,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  di'awing-room,  fol- 
lowed him  hither. 

"  Plenty  of  time  yet,"  said  the  vicar.  ^'  He  doesn't  reach 
Chahv-Newton  till  six,  even  if  the  train  should  be  punctual, 
and  ten  mile«  of  country  road,  five  of  them  in  Crimmer- 
crock  Lane,  are  not  jogged  over  in  a  hurry  by  our  old 
horse." 

"  But  he  has  done  it  in  an  hour  with  us,  my  dear." 

"  Years  ago." 

Thus  they  passed  the  minutes,  each  weU  knowing  that 
this  was  only  waste  of  breath,  the  one  essential  being  sim- 
ply to  wait. 

At  length  there  was  a  slight  noise  in  the  lane,  and  the 
old  pony-chaise  appeared  indeed  outside  the  railings.    They 


FULFIL3IEXT.  '  421 

saw  alight  therefrom  a  foriii  a\  liich  they  affected  to  recog- 
nize, but  would  actually  have  passed  by  in  the  street  with- 
out identifying  had  he  not  got  out  of  their  carriage  at  the 
particular  moment  when  a  particular  person  was  due. 

Mrs.  Clare  rushed  through  the  dark  passage  to  the  door, 
and  her  husband  came  more  slowly  after.  The  new  arrival, 
who  was  just  about  to  enter,  saw  their  anxious  faces  in  the 
doorway  and  the  gleam  of  the  west  in  their  spectacles  be- 
cause they  confronted  the  last  rays  of  day,  but  they  could 
only  see  his  shape  against  the  light. 

"  O  my  boy,  my  boy — home  again  at  last !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Clare,  who  cared  no  more  at  that  moment  for  the  stains  of 
heterodoxy  which  had  caused  all  this  sei)aration  than  for 
the  dust  upon  his  clothes.  What  woman,  indeed,  among 
the  most  faithful  adherents  to  the  truth,  believes  in  the 
promises  and  threats  of  the  Word  in  the  sense  in  which 
she  believes  in  her  own  childi^en,  or  would  not  throw  her 
theology  to  the  wind  if  weighed  against  their  happiness  f 
As  soon  as  they  reached  the  room  where  the  candles  were 
lighted  she  looked  at  his  face. 

"  O,  it  is  not  Angel — not  my  son — the  Angel  who  went 
away !  "  she  cried,  in  all  the  irony  of  sorrow,  as  she  tiu'ned 
herself  away. 

His  father,  too,  was  shocked  to  see  him,  so  reduced  was 
that  figure  from  its  former  contom's  by  worry  and  the  bad 
season  which  Clare  had  experienced,  in  the  climate  to  which 
he  had  so  rashly  hurried  in  his  first  aversion  to  the  mockery 
of  events  at  home.  You  could  see  the  skeleton  behind  the 
man,  and  almost  the  ghost  behind  the  skeleton.  His  sunken 
ej^e-pits  were  of  morbid  hue,  and  the  hght  in  his  eyes  had 
waned.  The  angular  hollows  and  fines  of  his  aged  ances- 
tors had  succeeded  to  their  reign  in  his  face  twenty  years 
before  their  time. 

"  I  was  ill  over  there,  you  know,"  he  said.  "  I  am  all 
right  now." 

As  if,  however,  to  falsify  this  assertion,  his  legs  seemed 


422  .TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

to  give  way,  and  he  suddenly  sat  down  to  save  himself  from 
falling.  It  was  only  a  slight  attack  of  faintness,  resulting 
from  the  tedious  day's  journey  and  the  excitement  of  arrival. 

'■^  Has  any  letter  come  for  me  lately  ? "  he  asked.  ^'  I  re- 
ceived the  last  you  sent  on  by  the  merest  chance,  and  after 
considerable  delay  through  being  inland,  or  I  might  have 
come  sooner." 

''It  was  from  your  wife,  we  supposed?" 

"  It  was." 

Only  one  other  had  recently  come.  They  had  not  sent 
it  on  to  him,  knowing  he  would  start  for  home  so  soon. 

He  hastily  opened  the  letter  produced,  and  was  much 
disturbed  to  read  in  Tess's  handwriting  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed in  her  last  hurried  scrawl  to  him. 

"  O,  why  have  you  treated  me  so  monstrously.  Angel ! 
I  do  not  deserve  it.  I  have  thought  it  all  over  carefully, 
and  I  can  never,  never  forgive  you !  You  know  that  I  did 
not  intend  to  wrong  3'ou — why  have  you  so  wronged  me  ? 
You  are  cruel,  cruel  indeed  !  I  ^Yi\\.  try  to  forget  you.  It 
is  aU  injustice  I  have  received  at  your  hands  ! — T." 

"  It  is  quite  true  !  "  said  Angel,  throwing  down  the  letter. 
''  Perhaps  she  will  never  be  reconciled  to  me  !  " 

"Don't,  Angel,  be  so  anxious  about  a  mere  child  of  the 
soil !  "  said  his  mother. 

"  Child  of  the  soil !  Well,  we  are  all  children  of  the 
soil ;  but  let  me  now  explain  to  you  what  I  have  never  ex- 
plained before,  that  her  father  is  a  descendant  in  the  male 
line  of  one  of  the  oldest  Norman  houses,  like  a  good  many 
others  who  lead  obscure  agricultural  lives  in  our  villages, 
and  are  dubbed  '  sons  of  the  soil.' " 

He  soon  retired  to  bed ;  and  the  next  moruing,  feeliug 
exceedingly  unwell,  he  remained  in  his  room  pondering.  The 
circumstances  amid  which  he  had  left  Tess  were  such  that 
though,  while  on  the  south  of  the  equator  and  just  in  re- 


FULFILLMENT.  423 

ceipt  of  her  loving  epistle,  it  had  seemed  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  woi-ld  to  rush  back  into  her  arms ;  now  that  he  had 
ai'rived  it  was  not  so  easy  as  it  had  seemed.  She  was  pas- 
sionate^ and  her  present  letter,  showing  that  her  estimate  of 
liim  had  changed  nnder  his  delay — too  justly  changed,  he 
sadly  owned,  made  him  ask  himself  if  it  would  be  mse  to 
confront  her  unannounced  in  the  presence  of  her  parents. 
Supposing  that  her  love  had  indeed  turned  to  dislike  dur- 
ing the  separation,  a  sudden  meeting  might  lead  to  bitter 
words. 

Clare  therefore  thought  it  would  be  best  to  prepare  Tess 
and  her  family  by  sending  a  line  to  Marlott  announcing 
his  return,  and  his  hope  that  she  was  still  li\4ng  ^Yith.  them 
there,  as  he  had  arranged  for  her  to  do  when  he  left  Eng- 
land. He  despatched  the  inquiry  that  very  day,  and  before 
the  week  was  out  there  came  a  short  reply  from  Mrs.  Dur- 
beyfield,  which  did  not  remove  his  embarrassment,  for  it 
bore  no  address,  though  it  was  not  written  from  Marlott. 

'^  Sir,— 

"  J  \\Tote  these  few  lines  to  say  that  my  Daughter  is  away 
from  home  at  present,  and  J  am  not  sure  when  she  \\dll  re- 
turn, but  J  will  let  vou  know  as  Soon  as  she  do.  J  do  not 
feel  at  liberty  to  tell  you  Where  she  is  staying.  J  should 
say  that  me  and  my  Family  have  left  Marlott  for  some  Time. 

"  Yours, 

'^  J.  DURBEYFIELD." 

It  was  such  a  relief  to  Clare  to  learn  that  Tess  was  at 
least  still  alive  that  her  mother's  reticence  as  to  her  where- 
abouts did  not  long  distress  him.  He  would  wait  till  Mrs. 
Durbeyfield  could  inform  him  of  Tess's  return,  which  her 
letter  implied  to  be  soon.  He  deserved  no  more.  His  had 
been  a  love  "  wdiich  alters  when  it  alteration  finds."  He 
had  undergone  some  strange  experiences  in  his  absence ; 
he  had  seen  the  \drtual  Faustina  in  the  literal  Cornelia,  a 


424  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

spiiitual  Liicretia  in  a  corporeal  Phiyne ;  lie  Lad  tliouglit 
of  the  woman  taken  and  set  in  the  midst  as  one  deserving 
to  be  stoned,  and  of  the  wife  of  Uriah  being  made  a  queen ; 
and  he  had  asked  himself  wh}^  had  he  not  judged  Tess  con- 
structively rather  than  biographic  ally,  by  the  will  rather 
than  by  the  deed  ? 

Day  after  day  jDassed  wliile  he  waited  at  his  father's 
house  for  the  promised  second  letter  from  Joan  Durbeyfleld, 
and  indirectly  to  recover  a  Httle  more  strength.  The 
strength  showed  signs  of  coming  back,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  letter.  Then  he  hunted  up  the  old  letter  sent 
on  to  him  in  Brazil,  which  Tess  had  ^^itten  from  Flint- 
comb- Ash,  and  which  had  brought  him  back.  He  re-read 
it.  The  sentences  touched  him  as  much  as  when  he  had 
first  perused  them. 

'^  I  must  cry  to  you  in  my  trouble — I  have  no  one  else. 
...  I  think  I  must  die  if  you  do  not  come  soon,  or  tell  me 
to  come  to  you.  .  .  .  Please,  please  not  to  be  just — only  a 
little  kind  to  me.  ...  If  vou  woidd  come,  I  could  die  in 
your  arms !  I  would  be  weU  content  to  do  that  if  so  be 
you  had  forgiven  me.  ...  If  you  will  send  me  one  little 
line,  and  say,  'J  am  coming  soon/  I  will  bide  on.  Angel — O,  so 
cheerfullv  !  .  .  .  Think  how  it  do  hm^t  mv  heart  not  to  see 
you  ever — ever !  Ah,  if  I  coidd  only  make  joiiv  dear  heart 
ache  one  httle  minute  of  each  day  as  mine  does  every  day 
and  all  day  long,  it  might  lead  you  to  show  pity  to  your 
poor  lonely  one.  ...  I  would  be  content,  ay,  glad,  to  live 
with  you  as  yom-  servant,  if  I  may  not  as  yoiu*  wife  5  so 
that  I  could  only  be  near  you,  and  get  glimpses  of  you,  and 
tliink  of  you  as  mine.  ...  I  long  for  only  one  thing  in 
heaven  or  earth  or  under  the  earth,  to  meet  you,  my  own 
dear !  Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  and  save  me  from  what 
threatens  me !  " 


Clare  determined  he  would  no  longer  believe  in  her  more 


FULFILMENT.  425 

recent  and  severer  regard  of  him ;  but  would  go  and  find 
her  immediately.  He  asked  his  father  if  she  had  apphed 
for  any  money  during  his  absence.  His  father  retm'ned  a 
negative,  and  then  for  the  fii^st  time  it  occurred  to  Angel 
that  her  pride  had  stood  in  her  way,  and  that  she  had  suf- 
fered privation.  From  his  remarks  his  parents  now  gath- 
ered the  real  reason  of  the  separation ;  and  their  Christian- 
ity was  such  that,  reprobates  being  their  especial  care,  the 
tenderness  towards  Tess  which  her  blood,  her  simplicity, 
even  her  poverty,  had  not  engendered,  was  instantly  excited 
by  her  sin. 

Wliilst  he  was  hastily  packing  together  a  few  articles  for 
his  journey  he  glanced  over  a  poor,  plain  missive  lately 
come  to  hand,  the  one  from  Marian  and  Izz  Huett,  begin- 
ning : 

"Honor'd  Sir, — 

''  Look  to  vour  Wife  if  von  do  love  her  as  much  as  she 
do  love  you,"  and  signed, 

"From  Two  Well- Wishers." 


LIV. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Clare  was  leaving  the  house, 
whence  his  mother  watched  his  thin  figure  as  it  disappeared 
into  the  street.  He  had  declined  to  borrow  his  father's  old 
mare,  well  knowing  of  its  necessity  to  the  household.  He 
went  to  the  inn,  where  he  hii^ed  a  trap,  and  coidd  hardly 
wait  during  the  harnessing.  In  a  very  few  minutes  after 
he  was  driving  up  the  hill  out  of  the  town,  which,  three  or 
four  months  earlier  in  the  year,  Tess  had  descended  mth 
such  hopes,  and  ascended  with  such  shattered  purposes. 

Benvill  Lane  soon  stretched  before  him,  its  hedges  and 
trees  pm-ple  with  buds ;  but  he  was  looking  at  other  things, 


426  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

and  only  recalled  himself  to  tlie  scene  sufficiently  to  enable 
Mm  to  keep  the  way.  In  something  less  than  an  h6uY  and 
a  half  he  had  skii-ted  the  south  of  the  King's  Hintock  estates 
and  ascended  to  the  untoward  solitude  of  Cross-in-Hand, 
the  unholy  stone  whereon  Tess  had  been  compelled  by  Alec 
D'Urberville,  in  his  converted  character,  to  swear  the  strange 
oath  that  she  would  never  wiKully  tempt  him  again.  The 
pale  and  blasted  nettle-stems  of  the  preceding  year  even 
now  lingered  nakedly  in  the  banks,  young  green  nettles  of 
the  present  spring  grooving  from  their  roots. 

Thence  he  went  along  the  verge  of  the  upland  overhang- 
ing the  other  Hintocks,  and,  turning  to  the  right,  plunged 
into  the  bracing  calcareous  region  of  Flintcomb-Ash,  the 
addi'ess  from  which  she  had  written  to  him  in  one  of  the 
letters,  and  which  he  supposed  to  be  the  place  of  sojom^n 
referred  to  by  her  mother.  Here,  of  course,  he  did  not  find 
her  now  J  and  what  added  to  his  depression  was  the  dis- 
covery that  no  '^  Mrs.  Clare  "  had  ever  been  heard  of  by  the 
cottagers  or  by  the  farmer  himself,  though  Tess  was  re- 
membered well  enough  by  her  Christian  name.  His  name 
she  had  obviously  never  used  during  their  separation,  and 
her  dignified  sense  of  their  total  severance  was  shown  not 
much  less  by  this  abstention  than  by  the  hardships  she  had 
chosen  to  undergo  (of  which  he  now  learned  for  the  fii'st 
time)  rather  than  apply  to  his  father  for  more  funds. 

From  this  place  they  told  him  Tess  Diu'beyfield  had  gone, 
without  due  notice,  to  the  home  of  her  parents  on  the  other 
side  of  Blackmoor,  and  it  therefore  became  necessary  to  find 
Mrs.  Durbevfiold.  She  had  told  him  she  was  not  now  at 
Marlott,  but  had  been  curiouslv  reticent  as  to  her  actual  ad- 
dress,  and  the  only  course  w^as  to  go  to  Marlott  and  inquire 
for  it.  The  farmer  who  had  been  so  churlish  mth  Tess 
was  quite  smooth-tongued  to  Clare,  and  lent  him  a  horse 
and  man  to  drive  him  to  Marlott,  the  gig  he  had  arrived  in 
being  sent  back  to  Emminster;  for  the  limits  of  a  day's 
jom-ney  with  that  horse  was  reached. 


FULFIL3IENT.  427 

Clare  Tvould  not  accept  the  loan  of  the  farmer's  vehicle 
for  a  farther  distance  than  to  the  outskirts  of  the  Vale,  and, 
sending  it  back  with  the  man  who  had  driven  him,  he  put 
up  at  an  inn,  and  next  day  entered  on  foot  the  region 
wherein  was  the  spot  of  his  dear  Tess's  birth.  It  was  as 
yet  too  early  in  the  year  for  much  color  to  appear  in  the 
gardens  and  foliage ;  the  scene  was  but  muter  overlaid 
with  a  thin  coat  of  green,  and  it  was  of  a  jDarcel  with  his 
expectations. 

The  house  in  which  Tess  had  passed  the  years  of  her 
childhood  was  now  inhabited  by  another  family  who  had 
never  knoT\Ti  her.  The  new  residents  were  in  the  garden, 
taking  as  much  interest  in  theii'  own  doings  as  if  the  home- 
stead had  never  passed  its  primal  time  in  conjunction  ^vith. 
the  histories  of  others,  beside  which  the  histories  of  these 
would  be  but  as  a  tale  that  is  told.  They  walked  about  the 
garden  paths  with  thoughts  of  their  owti  concerns  entii^ely 
uppermost,  bringing  their  actions  at  every  moment  into 
jarring  collision  with  the  dim  figures  behind  them,  talking 
as  though  the  time  when  Tess  lived  there  were  not  one  whit 
intenser  in  story  than  now.  Even  the  S23ring  bu'ds  sang 
over  their  heads  as  if  they  thought  there  was  nobody  miss- 
ing in  particular. 

On  inquiiy  of  these  precious  innocents,  to  whom  even 
the  name  of  their  predecessors  was  a  fading  memory,  Clare 
learned  that  John  Durbeyfield  was  dead ;  that  his  widow 
and  children  had  left  Marlott,  declaring  they  were  going  to 
live  at  Kingsbere,  but  instead  of  doing  so  they  had  gone 
on  to  a  place  near  Chaseborough.  B3'  this  time  Clare  ab- 
horred the  house  for  ceasing  to  contain  Tess,  and  hastened 
away  from  its  hated  presence  Avithout  once  looking  back. 

His  way  was  by  the  field  in  which  he  had  first  beheld  her 
at  the  dance.  It  was  as  bad  as  the  house — even  worse.  He 
passed  on  through  the  churchyard,  where,  amoug  the  new 
headstones,  he  saw  one  of  a  somewhat  superior  design  to  the 
rest.     The  inscription  ran  thus : 


428  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

''In  Memory  of  John  Durbeyfield,  rightly  D'Urberville, 
of  the  once  Powerful  Family  of  that  Name,  and  Du'ect 
Descendant  through  an  Illustrious  Line  from  Sir  Bryan 
D'Urberville,  one  of  the  Knights  of  the  Conqueror.  Died 
March  10th,  18—. 

"How  ARE  THE   MiGHTY  FALLEN." 

Some  man,  apparently  the  sexton,  had  observed  Clare 
standing  there,  and  drew  nigh.  "Ah,  sii^,  now  that's  a  man 
who  didn't  want  to  lie  here,  but  wished  to  be  carried  to 
Kingsbere,  where  his  ancestors  be." 

"  And  why  didn't  they  respect  his  wish  ? " 

"O — no  money.  Bless  your  soul,  sir,  why — there,  I 
wouldn't  wish  to  say  it  ever^^where,  but — even  this, head- 
stone, for  all  the  flourish  wrote  upon  en,  is  not  paid  for." 

"  Ah — who  put  it  up  ? " 

The  man  told  the  name  of  a  mason  in  the  village,  and, 
on  leaving  the  chm-chyard,  Clare  called  at  the  mason's 
house.  He  found  that  the  statement  was  true,  and  paid 
the  bill.  This  done,  he  turned  in  the  direction  of  Chase- 
borough. 

The  distance  was  too  long  for  a  walk,  but  Clare  felt  such 
a  strong  desii-e  for  isolation  that  at  first  he  would  neither 
hire  a  conveyance  nor  go  to  a  circuitous  line  of  railway  by 
which  he  might  eventually  reach  the  place.  At  Shaston, 
however,  he  found  he  must  hu*e ;  but  the  way  was  such  that 
he  did  not  approach  Joan's  retreat  till  about  seven  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  having  traversed  a  distance  of  over  twenty 
miles  since  leaving  Marlott. 

The  village  being  small,  he  had  little  difficulty  in  finding 
Mrs.  Durbeyfield's  tenement,  which  was  a  house  in  a  waUed 
garden  remote  from  the  main  street,  where  she  had  stowed 
away  her  awkward  old  furniture  as  best  she  could.  It  was 
plain  that  for  some  reason  or  other  she  had  not  wislied  him 
to  visit  her,  and  he  felt  his  call  to  be  somewht^t  of  an  intru- 


FULFILMENT.  429 

sion.  She  came  to  the  door  herseK,  and  the  light  from  the 
evening  sky  fell  upon  her  face. 

This  was  the  fii'st  time  that  Clare  had  ever  met  her,  but 
he  was  too  preoccupied  to  observe  more  than  that  she  was 
still  a  handsome  woman,  in  the  garb  of  a  3:espectable  widow. 
He  was  obliged  to  explain  that  he  was  Tess's  husband,  and 
his  object  in  coming  there,  and  he  did  it  awkwardly  enough. 
"I  want  to  see  her  at  once,"  he  added.  '^You  said  you 
would  write  to  me  again,  but  you  have  not  done  so." 

"  Because  shelve  not  come  home,"  said  Joan. 

"  Do  you  know  if  she  is  well  ?  " 

"  I  don't.     But  you  ought  to,  su^,"  said  she. 

''  I  admit  it.     Where  is  she  stajdng  f " 

From  the  beginning  of  the  interview  Joan  had  disclosed 
her  embarrassment  by  keeping  her  hand  to  the  side  of  her 
cheek.  "  I — don't  know  exactly  where  she  is  stajdng,"  she 
answered.     ''  She  was — but " 

^'  Where  was  she  ? " 

^'  Well,  she  is  not  there  noAv."  In  her  evasiveness  she 
paused  again,  and  the  younger  childi'en  had  by  this  time 
crept  to  the  door,  where,  pulling  at  his  mother's  skii'ts,  the 
youngest  murmured,  "  Is  this  the  gentleman  who  is  going 
to  marry  Tess  ? " 

"  He  has  married  her,"  Joan  whispered.     "  Go  inside." 

Clare  saw  her  efforts  for  reticence,  and  asked,  "  Do  you 
think  Tess  would  wish  me  to  try  and  find  her  ?  If  not,  of 
com'se " 

"  I  don't  think  she  would." 

'^  Are  vou  sure  ? " 

^'I  am  sure  she  woiddn't." 

He  was  turning  away ;  and  then  he  thought  of  Tess's 
tender  letter.  "  I  am  sure  she  would  !  "  he  retorted,  passion- 
ately.    "  I  know  her  better  than  you  do." 

"  That's  veiy  likely,  sir ;  for  I  have  never  reaUy  known 
her." 


430  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERYILLES. 

"  Please  tell  me  her  address,  Mrs.  Dnrbey field,  in  kindness 
to  a  lonely,  wretched  man." 

Tess's  mother  again  restlessly  swept  her  cheek  with  her 
vertical  hand,  and  seeing  that  he  suffered,  she  at  last  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  ^'  She  is  at  Sandbourne." 

"All — where  there?  Sandboiirne  has  become  a  large 
place,  they  say." 

"  I  don't  know  more  particularly  than  I  have  said — Sand- 
bourne.     For  myself,  I  was  never  there." 

It  was  apparent  that  Joan  spoke  the  truth  in  this,  and 
he  pressed  her  no  further. 

"  Are  you  in  want  of  anything  ? "  he  said,  gently. 

"  No,  su',"  she  replied.    "  We  are  fairly  well  provided  for." 

Without  entering  the  house,  Clare  turned  away.  There 
was  a  station  tliree  miles  ahead,  and  pa}dng  off  his  coach- 
man, he  walked  thither.  The  last  train  to  Sandbourne  left 
shortly  after,  and  it  bore  Clare  on  its  wheels. 


LV. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  having  secured  a  bed  at  one 
of  the  hotels  and  telegraphed  his  address  to  his  father  im- 
mediatelv  on  his  arrival,  he  walked  out  into  the  streets  of 
Sandbourne.  It  was  too  late  to  call  on  or  inquire  for  any 
one,  and  he  reluctantly  postponed  his  purpose  tiU  the  morn- 
ing.    But  he  could  not  retire  to  rest  just  yet. 

This  fashionable  watering-place,  with  its  eastern  and  its 
w^estern  stations,  its  piers,  its  gi'oves  of  pines,  its  prome- 
nades, and  its  covered  gardens,  was,  to  Angel  Clare,  like  a 
fairy  place  suddenly  created  by  the  stroke  of  a  wand,  and 
allowed  to  get  a  little  dusty.  An  outlpng  easternmost 
tract  of  the  enormous  Egdon  Waste  was  close  at  hand,  yet 
on  the  very  verge  of  that  tawny  piece  of  antiquity  such  a 


fulfil:\ient.  431 

glittering  novelty  as  this  pleasure-city  had  chosen  to  spring 
up.  Within  the  space  of  a  mile  from  its  outskirts  every 
iiTegularity  of  the  soil  was  prehistoric,  every  ravine  an  un- 
distiu'bed  British  trackway,  not  a  sod  having  been  turned 
since  the  days  of  the  Caesars.  Yet  the  exotic  had  grown 
here,  suddenly  as  the  prophet's  gourd  j  and  had  drawn 
hither  Tess. 

By  the  midnight  lamps  he  went  up  and  down  the  mnd- 
ing  ways  of  tliis  new  world  in  an  old  one,  and  could  discern 
between  the  trees  and  against  the  stars  the  lofty  roofs,  chim- 
neys, gazebos,  and  towers  of  the  numerous  fanciful  resi- 
dences of  which  the  place  was  composed.  It  was  a  city  of 
detached  mansions ;  a  Mediterranean  lounging-place  on  the 
Enghsh  Channel ;  and  as  seen  now  by  night,  it  seemed  even 
more  imposing  than  it  was. 

The  sea  was  near  at  hand,  but  not  intrusive  j  it  murmured, 
and  he  thought  it  was  the  pines ;  the  pines  murmui'ed  in 
precisely  the  same  tones,  and  he  thought  they  were  the  sea. 

Where  could  Tess  possibly  be,  a  cottage  gu4,  his  young 
w^ife,  amidst  all  this  wealth  and  fashion?  The  more  he 
pondered  the  more  was  he  puzzled.  Were  there  any  cows 
to  milk  here  ?  There  certainly  were  no  fields  to  till.  She 
was  most  probably  engaged  to  do  something  in  one  of  these 
large  houses ;  and  he  sauntered  along,  looking  at  the  cham- 
ber-windows, and  theii"  lights  going  out  one  by  one,  and 
wondered  which  of  them  might  be  hers. 

Conjecture  was  useless,  and  just  after  twelve  o'clock  he 
entered  and  went  to  bed.  Before  putting  out  his  Hght,  he 
re-read  Tess's  impassioned  letter.  Sleep,  however,  he  could 
not — so  near  her,  yet  so  far  from  her — and  he  continually 
lifted  the  i\dndow-blind  and  regarded  the  backs  of  opposite 
houses,  and  wondered  behind  which  of  the  sashes  she  re- 
posed at  that  moment. 

He  might  almost  as  well  have  sat  up  all  night.  In  the 
morning  he  arose  at  seven,  and  shorth^  after  went  out,  tak- 
ing the  dii'ection  of  the  chief  post-office.    At  the  door  he 


432  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

met  an  intelligent  postman  coming  out  witli  letters  for  the 
morning  delivery. 

'^Do  yon  know  the  addi'ess  of  a  Mrs.  Clare?"  asked 
Angel. 

The  postman  shook  his  head.  Then,  remembering  that 
she  wonld  have  been  likely  to  continue  the  nse  of  her 
maiden  name,  Clare  said,  "Or  a  Miss  Dm-beyfield f " 

" Dnrbeyfleld ?"  This  also  was  strange  to  the  postman 
addressed.  "  There's  visitors  coming  and  going  every  day, 
as  yon  know,  sir,"  he  said ;  ''  and  without  the  name  of  the 
honse  'tis  impossible  to  find  'em." 

One  of  his  comrades  hastening  out  at  that  moment,  the 
name  was  repeated  to  him. 

"  I  know  no  name  of  Durbevfield ;  but  there  is  the  name 
of  D'Urberville  at  The  Herons,"  said  the  second. 

"  That's  it,"  cried  Clare,  pleased  to  think  that  she  had  re- 
verted to  the  real  word.     "  Wliat  place  is  The  Herons?" 

"A  stylish  lodging-honse.  'Tis  all  lodging-honses  here, 
bless  'ee." 

Clare  received  directions  how  to  find  the  honse,  and 
hastened  thither,  arri\dng  mth  the  milkman.  The  Herons, 
though  an  ordinary  \dlla,  stood  in  its  own  grounds,  and  was 
certainly  the  last  place  in  which  one  would  have  expected  to 
find  lodgings,  so  private  was  its  appearance.  If  poor  Tess 
were  a  servant  here,  as  he  feared,  she  would  go  to  the  back 
door  to  that  milkman,  and  he  was  inclined  to  go  thither 
also.  However,  in  his  doubts  he  turned  to  the  front,  and 
rang. 

The  hour  being  earty,  the  landlady  herself  opened  the 
door.  Clare  inquired  for  Teresa  D'Urberville  or  Durbev- 
field. 

"  Mrs.  D'UrberviUe  ? " 

"  Yes." 

Tess,  then,  passed  as  a  married  woman,  and  he  felt  glad, 
even  though  she  had  not  adopted  his  name.  "Will  you 
kindly  tell  her  that  a  relative  is  anxious  to  see  her?" 


FULFILIMENT.  433 

"  It  is  rather  early-     What  name  shall  I  give,  sir  ? " 

"  Angel." 

"  Mr.  Angel  ? " 

"No  5  Angel.  It  is  my  Christian  name.  She'll  nnderstancl." 

"I'U  see  if  she  is  awake." 

He  was  shown  into  the  front  room — the  dining-room — 
and  looked  ont  throngh  the  spring  ciirtains  at  the  little 
lawn,  and  the  rhododendrons  and  other  shrnbs  npon  it. 
Obvionsly,  her  position  was  by  no  means  so  bad  as  he  had 
feared,  and  it  crossed  his  mind  that  she  mnst  somehow  have 
claimed  and  sold  the  jewels  to  attain  it.  He  did  not  blame 
her  for  one  moment.  Soon  his  sharpened  ear  detected 
footsteps  npon  the  stands,  at  which  his  heart  thumped  so 
painfully  that  he  could  hardl}^  stand  fii-m.  "  Dear  me ! 
what  wiU  she  think  of  me,  so  altered  as  I  am !  "  he  said  to 
himself ;  and  the  door  opened. 

Tess  appeared  on  the  threshold — not  at  all  as  he  had  ex- 
pected to  see  her — bewilderingly  otherwise,  indeed.  Her 
great  natui-al  beauty  w^as,  if  not  heightened,  rendered  more 
obvious  by  her  attu'e.  She  was  loosely  wrapped  in  a  gray- 
white  cashmere  dressing-gown  embroidered  in  half -mourn- 
ing tmts,  and  she  wore  shppers  of  the  same  hue.  Her  neck 
rose  out  of  a  friU.  of  do^\Ti,  and  her  well-remembered  cable 
of  dark-broA\Ti  hair  was  partially  coiled  up  in  a  mass  at  the 
back  of  her  head  and  partly  hanging  on  her  shoulder — the 
evident  result  of  haste. 

He  held  out  his  arms,  but  they  had  fallen  again  to  his 
side ;  for  she  had  not  come  forward,  remaining  stiU  in  the 
opening  of  the  doorway.  Mere  yellow  skeleton  that  he  was 
now,  he  felt  the  contrast  between  them,  and  thought  his 
appearance  distasteful  to  her. 

"  Tessie ! "  he  said,  huskily,  '^  can  you  forgive  me  for 
going  away  ?  Can't  you — come  to  me  ?  How  do  you  get 
tobe— hke  this?" 

"It  is  too  late ! "  said  she,  her  voice  sounding  hard 
through  the  room,  and  her  eyes  shining  unnaturally. 

28 


434  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

"I  did  not  think  rightly  of  you — I  did  not  see  you  as 
you  were/'  he  continued  to  ]3lead.  "  I  have  learnt  to  since, 
dearest  Tessie  mine  !  " 

"  Too  late,  too  late  !  "  she  said,  waving  her  hand  in  the 
impatience  of  a  person  whose  tortures  cause  every  instant 
to  feel  an  hour.  ^'  Don't  come  close  to  me,  Angel !  No — 
you  must  not.     Keep  away  !  " 

^'  But  don't  vou  love  me,  mv  dear  wife,  because  I  have 
been  so  pulled  down  by  illness  f  You  are  not  so  fickle — I 
am  come  on  purpose  for  you — my  mother  and  father  A\dll 
welcome  you  now." 

''  Yes — oh  yes,  yes !  But  I  say,  I  say,  it  is  too  late  !  "  she 
almost  shrieked.  She  seemed  like  a  fugitive  in  a  dream, 
who  tried  to  move  away,  but  could  not.  ''  Don't  you  know 
all — don't  you  know  it  ?  Yet  how  do  you  come  here  if  you 
do  not  know?" 

"  I  inquired  here  and  there,  and  I  found  the  way." 

'^  I  waited  and  waited  for  you !  "  she  went  on,  her  tones 
suddenly  resuming  their  old  fluty  pathos.  "  But  you  did 
not  come,  and  I  wrote  to  you,  and  you  did  not  come  !  He 
kept  on  saying  you  would  never  come  any  more,  and  that  I 
was  a  foolish  woman.  He  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  mother, 
and  to  all  of  us  after  father's  death.     He " 

^'  I  don't  imderstand." 

'^  He  has  won  me — back  to  him." 

Clare  looked  at  her  keenly,  then,  gathering  her  meaning, 
flagged  like  one  plague-stricken,  and  his  glance  sank;  it 
fell  on  her  hands,  which,  once  rosy,  were  now  white  and 
delicate. 

She  continued:  "He  is  upstairs.  ...  I  hate  him  uoav, 
because  he  told  me  a  lie — that  you  would  not  come  again ; 
and  you  have  come.  These  clothes  are  what  he  has  put 
upon  me  :  I  didn't  care  what  he  did  wi'  me.  But  "wdU  you 
go  away.  Angel,  please,  and  never  come  any  more !  " 

They  stood  fixed,  their  baffled  hearts  looking  out  of  their 


FULFILMENT.  435 

eyes  witli  a  joylessness  pitiM  to  see.  Both  seemed  to  im- 
plore something  to  shelter  them  from  reahty. 

^^  Ah — it  is  my  fault !  "  said  Clare.  But  he  could  not  get 
on.  Speech  was  as  inexpressive  as  silence.  But  he  had 
a  vague  consciousness  of  one  thing,  though  it  was  not  clear 
to  him  till  later ;  that  his  original  Tess  had  spiritually  ceased 
to  recognize  the  body  before  him  as  hers — allowing  it  to 
drift,  like  a  corpse  upon  the  current,  in  a  direction  dissoci- 
ated from  its  living  will. 

A  few  instants  passed,  and  he  found  that  Tess  was  gone. 
His  face  grew  colder  and  more  shrunken  as  he  stood,  con- 
centrated on  the  moment,  and  a  minute  or  two  after  he 
found  himself  in  the  street,  walking  along,  he  did  not  know 
whither. 


LVI. 

Mrs.  Brooks,  the  lady  who  was  the  householder  at  The 
Herons,  and  owner  of  all  the  handsome  furniture,  was  not 
a  person  of  an  unusually  curious  tui^n  of  mind.  She  was 
too  deeply  materialized,  poor  woman,  by  her  long  and  en- 
forced bondage  to  that  arithmetical  demon,  Profit-and-Loss, 
to  retain  much  curiosity  for  its  own  sake,  and  apart  from 
possible  lodgers'  pockets.  Nevertheless,  the  visit  of  Angel 
Clare  to  her  well-paying  tenants,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  D'Urberville, 
was  sufficiently  exceptional  in  point  of  time  and  manner  to 
rein^'igorate  the  feminine  proclivity  which  had  been  stifled 
down  as  useless,  save  in  its  bearing  on  the  letting  trade. 

Tess  had  spoken  to  her  husband  from  the  doorway,  with- 
out entering  the  dining-room,  and  Mrs.  Brooks,  who  stood 
within  the  partly  closed  door  of  her  own  sitting-room  at 
the  back  of  the  passage,  could  hear  fragments  of  the  con- 
versation— if  conversation  it  could  be  called — between  those 


436  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

two  wretched  soiils.  She  heard  Tess  reascend  the  stairs  to 
the  fii'st  floor,  and  the  departure  of  Clare,  and  the  closing 
of  the  front  door  behind  him.  Then  the  door  of  the  room 
above  was  shut,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  knew  that  Tess  had  re- 
entered her  apartment.  As  the  young  lady  was  not  fully 
di'cssed,  Mrs.  Brooks  knew  that  she  would  not  emerge  again 
for  some  time. 

She  accordingly  ascended  the  stairs  softly  and  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  front  room — a  di-awing-room,  connected 
with  the  room  immediately  behind  it  (which  was  a  bedi-oom) 
by  folding-doors  in  the  common  manner.  This  first  floor, 
containing  Mrs.  Brooks's  best  apartments,  had  been  taken 
by  the  week  by  the  D'Urbervilles.  The  back  room  was  now 
in  silence ;  but  from  the  drawing-room  there  came  sounds. 

All  that  she  could  at  first  distinguish  of  them  was  one 
syllable,  continually  repeated  in  a  low  note  of  moaning,  as 
if  it  came  from  a  soul  bound  to  some  Ixionian  wheel — 

"  0,  O,  O  !  " 

Then  a  silence,  then  a  hea^y  sigh,  and  again — 

"  0,  0,  O  !  " 

The  landlady  looked  through  the  keyhole.  Only  a  small 
space  of  the  room  inside  was  visible,  but  within  that  space 
came  a  corner  of  the  breakfast-table,  w^hicli  was  already 
spread  for  the  meal,  and  also  a  chair  beside.  Over  the  seat  of 
the  chair  Tess's  face  was  bowled,  her  posture  being  a  kneeling 
one  in  front  of  it ;  her  hands  were  clasped  over  her  head, 
the  skirts  of  her  dressing-gown  and  the  embroidery  of  her 
nightgown  flowed  upon  the  floor  behind  her  and  upon  the 
chaii-,  and  her  stockingless  feet,  from  which  the  slippers  had 
fallen,  protmded  upon  the  carpet.  It  was  from  her  lips 
that  came  the  murmur  of  unspeakable  despair. 

Then  a  man's  voice  from  the  adjoining  bedroom,  "  Wliat's 
the  matter  ? " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  went  on  in  a  tone  which  was  a 
soliloquy  rather  than  an  exchimation,  and  a  dirge  rather 
than  a  soliloquy.     Mrs.  Brooks  could  only  catch  a  portion  : 


FULFILMENT.  437 

"  And  then  my  dear,  dear  husband  came  home  to  me  .  .  . 
and  I  did  not  know  it !  .  .  .  And  you  had  used  your  cruel 
persuasion  upon  me  .  .  .  you  did  not  stop  using  it — no — 
you  did  not  stop !  My  little  sisters  and  brothers  and  my 
mother's  needs — they  were  the  things  you  moved  me  by 
.  .  .  and  you  said  my  husband  woidd  never  come  back — 
never ;  and  you  taunted  me,  and  said  what  a  simpleton  I 
was  to  expect  him.  .  .  .  And  at  last  I  beheved  you  and 
gave  way  !  .  .  .  And  then  he  came  back  !  Now  he  is  gone. 
Gone  a  second  time,  and  I  have  lost  him  now  forever  .  .  . 
and  he  will  not  love  me  the  littlest  bit  ever  anymore — only 
hate  me  !  »  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  have  lost  him  now — again  because 
of — you  !  " 

In  writhing,  with  her  head  on  the  chau-,  she  turned  her 
face  towards  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  coidd  see  the  pain 
upon  it ;  and  that  her  lips  were  bleeding  from  the  clench 
of  her  teeth  upon  them,  and  that  the  long  lashes  of  her 
closed  eyes  stuck  in  wet  tags  to  her  cheeks.  She  con- 
tinued: "And  he  is  dying — he  looks  as  if  he  is  dying! 
.  .  .  And  my  sin  will  kill  him  and  not  kill  me !  .  .  .  O, 
you  have  torn  my  life  all  to  pieces  .  .  .  made  me  a  victmi, 
a  caged  wretch !  .  .  .  My  own  true  husband  will  never, 
never — O  Heaven — I  can't  bear  this  ! — I  cannot !  " 

There  were  more  and  sharper  words  from  the  man ;  then 
a  sudden  rustle ;  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet.  Mrs.  Brooks, 
thinking  that  the  speaker  w^as  coming  to  rush  out  of  the 
door,  hastily  retreated  do^^oi  the  stairs. 

She  need  not  have  done  so,  however,  for  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room  was  not  opened.  Mrs.  Brooks  felt  it  unsafe 
to  listen  on  the  landing  again,  and  entered  her  own  parlor 
below.  She  could  hear  nothing  tlu-ough  the  floor,  although 
she  listened  intently,  and  thereupon  went  to  the  kitchen  to 
finish  her  interrupted  breakfast.  Coming  up  presently  to 
the  front  room  on  the  gi'ound  floor,  she  took  up  some  sew- 
ing, waiting  for  her  lodgers  to  ring,  that  she  might  take 
away  the  breakfast,  which  she  meant  to  do  herself,  to  dis- 


438  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERYILLES. 

cover  wliat  was  the  matter,  if  possible.  Overhead,  as  she 
sat,  she  could  now  hear  the  floor-boards  sUghtly  creak,  as  if 
some  one  were  walking  about,  and  presently  the  movement 
was  explained  by  the  rustle  of  garments  against  the  banis- 
ters, the  opening  and  the  closing  of  the  front  door,  and  the 
form  of  Tess  passing  to  the  gate  on  her  way  into  the  street. 
She  was  fidly  dressed  now  in  the  walking-costume  of  a  well- 
to-do  young  lady,  in  which  she  had  arrived,  with  the  sole 
addition  that  over  her  hat  and  black  feather  a  veil  was 
drawn.  Mrs.  Brooks  had  not  been  able  to  catch  any  word 
of  farewell,  temporary  or  otherwise,  between  the  tenants 
of  the  rooms  above.  They  might  have  quarrelled,  or  Mr. 
D'Urberville  might  still  be  asleep,  for  he  was  not  an  early 
riser. 

She  went  into  the  back  room  which  was  more  especially 
her  own  apartment,  and  continued  her  sewing  there.  The 
lady  lodger  did  not  return,  nor  did  the  gentleman  ring  his 
bell.  Mrs.  Brooks  pondered  on  the  delay,  and  on  what 
probal)le  relation  the  visitor  who  had  called  so  early  stood 
to  the  couple  upstairs.  In  reflecting  she  leant  back  in  her 
chair. 

As  she  did  so  her  eyes  glanced  casually  over  the  ceiling 
till  they  were  arrested  by  a  spot  in  the  middle  of  its  white 
surface  which  she  had  never  noticed  there  before.  It  was 
about  the  size  of  a  wafer  when  she  first  observed  it,  but  it 
speedily  grew  as  large  as  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  then 
she  could  perceive  that  it  was  red.  The  oblong  Avhite  ceil- 
ing, vnth  its  scarlet  blot  in  the  midst,  had  the  appearance 
of  a  gigantic  ace  of  hearts. 

Mrs.  Brooks  had  strange  quahns  of  misgiving.  She  got 
upon  the  table,  and  touched  the  spot  in  the  ceiling  with  her 
fingers.  It  was  damp,  and  she  fancied  that  it  was  a  blood 
stain. 

Descending  from  the  tal)le,  she  left  the  parlor,  and  went 
upstairs,  intending  to  enter  the  room  overhead,  which  was 
the  chamber  at  the  back  of  the  di-amng-room.     But,  nerve- 


FULFIKMENT.  439 

less  woman  as  she  had  now  become,  she  conld  not  bring 
herself  to  attempt  the  handle.  She  listened.  The  dead 
silence  within  was  broken  only  by  a  regular  beat. 

Drip,  drip,  di'ip. 

Mrs.  Brooks  hastened  downstairs,  opened  the  front  door, 
and  ran  into  the  street.  A  man  she  knew,  one  of  the  work- 
men emploj^ed  at  an  adjoining  villa,  was  passing  by,  and 
she  begged  him  to  come  in  and  go  upstairs  with  her ;  she 
feared  something  had  happened  to  one  of  her  lodgers.  The 
workman  assented,  and  followed  her  to  the  landing. 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  and  stood  back 
for  him  to  pass  in,  entering  herself  behind  him.  The  room 
was  empty ;  the  breakfast — a  substantial  repast  of  coffee, 
eggs,  and  a  cold  ham — lay  spread  upon  the  table  untouched, 
as  when  she  had  taken  it  up,  excepting  that  the  carving- 
knife  was  missing.  She  asked  the  man  to  go  through  the 
folding-doors  into  the  adjoining  room. 

He  opened  the  door,  entered  a  step  or  two,  and  came 

back  almost  instantly,  with  a  rigid  face.     "  My  good , 

the  gentleman  in  bed  is  dead!  I  think  he  has  been  hui-t 
with  a  knife — a  lot  of  blood  has  run  down  upon  the  floor !  " 

The  alarm  was  soon  given,  and  the  house  which  had  lately 
been  so  quiet  resounded  with  the  tramp  of  many  footsteps, 
a  surgeon  among  the  rest.  The  wound  was  deep ;  the  point 
of  the  blade  had  touched  the  lieart  of  the  victim,  who  lav 
on  his  back,  pale,  fixed,  dead,  as  if  he  had  scarcely  moved 
after  the  infliction  of  the  blow.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  news  that  a  gentleman  who  was  a  temporary  visitor  to 
the  town  had  been  stabl)ed  to  the  heart  in  his  bed,  spread 
through  every  street  and  villa  of  the  popular  watering- 
place. 


/ 


440  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 


LYII. 

Meanwhile  Angel  Clare  had  walked  automatically  along 
the  way  by  which  he  had  come,  and  entering  his  hotel,  sat 
down  over  the  breakfast,  staring  at  nothingness.  He  went 
on  eating  and  drinking  unconsciously,  till  on  a  sudden  he 
demanded  his  bill ;  having  paid  which,  he  took  his  dressing- 
bag  in  his  hand,  the  onl}"  luggage  he  had  brought  with  him, 
and  went  out. 

At  the  moment  of  his  departure  a  telegram  was  handed 
to  him — a  few  words  from  his  mother,  stating  that  they 
were  glad  to  know  his  addi'ess,  and  informing  him  that  his 
brother  Cuthbert  had  i3roposed  to  and  been  accepted  by 
Mercy  Chant. 

Clare  crumpled  uj)  the  paper,  and  followed  the  route  to 
the  station ;  reaching  it,  he  found  that  there  woidd  be  no 
train  leaving  for  an  hoiu'  and  more.  He  sat  down  to  wait, 
and  having  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  felt  that  he  could 
wait  there  no  longer.  Broken  in  heart  and  numbed,  he  had 
nothing  to  Inu'ry  for,  but  he  wished  to  get  out  of  a  town 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  such  an  experience,  and  turned 
to  walk  to  the  first  station  onward,  and  let  the  train  pick 
him  up  there. 

The  highway  that  he  followed  was  open,  and  at  a  little 
distance  dipped  into  a  valley,  across  which  it  could  be  seen 
running  from  edge  to  edge.  He  had  traversed  the  greater 
part  of  this  depression,  and  was  climbing  the  western 
acclivity,  when,  pausing  for  breath,  he  unconsciously  looked 
back.  Why  he  did  so  he  could  not  say,  but  something 
seemed  to  impel  the  act.  The  tape-like  surface  of  the  road 
diminished  in  his  rear  as  far  as  he  could  see,  and  as  he  gazed 
a  moving  spot  intruded  on  the  white  vacuity  of  its  per- 
spective. 


FULFILMENT.  441 

It  was  a  human  figure,  runniug.  Clare  waited,  with  a 
dim  sense  that  somebody  was  trying  to  overtake  him. 

The  form  descending  the  incline  was  a  woman's,  yet  so 
entii-ely  was  his  mind  blinded  to  the  idea  of  his  wife's  fol- 
lowing him  that,  even  when  she  came  nearer,  he  did  not 
recognize  her  under  the  totally  changed  attire  in  which  he 
now  beheld  her.  It  was  not  till  she  was  quite  close  that  he 
could  believe  her  to  be  Tess. 

^'  I  saw  you — turn  away  from  the  station — just  before  I 
got  there — and  I  have  been  following  you  all  this  way !  " 

She  was  so  pale,  so  breathless,  so  quivering  in  every 
muscle,  that  he  did  not  ask  her  a  single  question,  but  seiz- 
ing her  hand,  and  pidling  it  within  his  arm,  he  led  her  along. 
To  avoid  meeting  any  possible  wayfarers,  he  left  the  high- 
road, and  took  a  footpath  under  some  fii'-trees.  When  they 
were  deep  among  the  moaning  boughs  he  stopped,  and 
looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Angel,"  she  said,  as  if  waiting  for  this,  "do  you  know 
what  I  have  been  running  after  you  for  ?  To  tell  you  that 
I  have  kiUed  him  !  "  A  pitiful  white  smile  lit  her  face  as 
she  spoke. 

"  What !  "  said  he,  thinking  from  the  strangeness  of  her 
manner  that  she  was  in  some  delirium. 

"I  have  done  it — I  don't  know  how,"  she  continued. 
"  Still,  I  owed  it  to  'ee,  and  to  myself.  Angel.  I  feared  long 
ago,  when  I  struck  him  on  the  mouth  with  my  glove,  that 
I  might  do  it  some  day  for  the  wi'ong  he  did  to  me  in  my 
simple  youth,  and  to  you  through  me.  He  has  come  be- 
tween us  and  ruined  us,  and  now  he  can  never  do  it  any 
more.  I  never  loved  liim  at  all,  Angel,  as  I  loved  you. 
You  know  it,  don't  you  ?  You  believe  it  ?  You  didn't  come 
back  to  me,  and  I  was  obUged  to  go  back  to  him,  or  sell 
what  was  not  mine  to  sell,  the  heir-things  of  your  family. 
Why  did  you  go  away; — why  did  you — when  I  loved  you 
so  ?  I  can't  think  why  you  did  it.  But  I  don't  blame  you ; 
only.  Angel,  will  you  forgive  me  my  sin  against  you,  now 


442  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

I  have  killed  him?  I  thought  as  I  ran  along  that  you 
would  he  sure  to  forgive  me  now  I  have  done  that.  It 
came  to  me  as  a  shining  hght  that  I  should  get  you  back 
that  way.  I  could  not  bear  the  loss  of  'ee  any  longer — you 
don't  know  how  entirely  I  was  unable  to  bear  your  not  lov- 
ing me.  Say  you  do  now,  dear,  dear  husband:  say  you 
do,  now  I  have  killed  him !  " 

"  I  do  love  you,  Tess — O,  I  do — it  is  all  come  back  !  "  he 
said,  tightening  his  arms  round  her  with  fevered  pressiu-e. 
'' But  how  do  you  mean — you  have  killed  him!" 

"  I  mean  that  I  have,"  she  murmured  in  a  reverie. 

''  What,  bodily  ?     Is  he  dead  ? " 

'^  Yes.  He  heard  me  crying  about  you,  and  he  bitterly 
taunted  me ;  and  called  you  by  a  foul  name ;  and  then  I 
did  it.  Mv  heart  could  not  bear  it.  He  had  taunted  me 
about  you  before.  And  then  I  di'essed  myself  and  came 
awav  to  find  you." 

By  degrees  he  was  inclined  to  believe  that  she  had  faintly 
attempted,  at  least,  what  she  said  she  had  done ;  and  his  hor- 
ror at  her  impulse  was  mixed  with  amazement  at  the  strength 
of  her  affection  for  himself,  and  at  the  strangeness  of  its 
(juality,  which  had  apparently  extinguished  her  moral  sense 
altogether.  Unal)le  to  reahze  the  gravity  of  her  conduct, 
she  seemed  at  last  content ;  and  he  looked  at  her  as  she  lay 
upon  his  shoidder,  weeping  with  happiness,  and  wondered 
what  o))scure  strain  in  the  D'Urberville  blood  had  led  to 
this  aberration — if  it  were  an  aberi'ation.  There  momen- 
tarily flashed  through  his  mind  that  the  family  tradition 
might  have  arisen  because  the  D'UrberviUes  had  been 
known  to  do  these  things.  As  well  as  his  confused  and 
excited  ideas  could  reason,  he  supposed  that  in  the  mo- 
ment of  mad  grief  of  which  she  spoke  her  mind  had 
lost  its  balance,  and  plunged  her  into  this  abyss.  It  was 
very  teiTible  if  true ;  if  a  temporary  hallucination,  sad. 
But,  anyhow,  here  was  this  deserted  wife  of  his,  this  jias- 
sionately  fond  woman,  clinging  to  him  without  a  suspicion 


FULFILMENT.  443 

that  lie  would  be  any  tiling  to  lier  but  a  protector.  He  saw 
that  for  him  to  be  otherwise  was  not,  in  her  mind,  within 
the  region  of  the  possible.  Tenderness  was  absolutely 
dominant  in  Clare  at  last.  He  kissed  her  endlessly  with 
his  white  lips,  and  held  her  hand,  and  said,  '^  I  will  not  de- 
sert you  !  I  will  iDrotect  you  by  every  means  in  my  power, 
dearest  love,  whatever  you  may  have  done  or  not  have 
done ! " 

They  then  walked  on  under  the  trees,  Tess  turning  her 
head  every  now  and  then  to  look  at  him.  Worn  and  un- 
handsome as  he  had  become,  it  was  plain  that  she  did  not 
discern  the  least  fault  in  his  appearance.  To  her  he  was, 
as  of  old,  all  that  was  perfection,  personally  and  mentally. 
He  was  still  her  Antinous,  her  Apollo  even ;  his  sickly  face 
was  beautiful  as  the  morning  to  her  affectionate  regard  on 
this  day  no  less  than  when  she  first  beheld  him ;  for  was  it 
not  the  face  of  the  one  man  on  earth  who  had  loved  her 
purely,  and  who  had  l^elieved  in  her  as  pure  ? 

With  an  instinct  as  to  possibilities,  he  did  not  now,  as 
he  had  intended,  make  for  the  first  station  beyond  the 
town,  but  plunged  still  farther  under  the  firs,  which  here 
abounded  for  miles.  Each  clasping  the  other  round  the 
waist,  they  promenaded  over  the  dry  bed  of  fir-needles, 
throAvn  into  a  vague,  intoxicating  atmosphere  at  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  together  at  last,  with  no  li\dng  soul  be- 
tween them,  ignoring  that  there  was  a  corpse.  Thus  they 
proceeded  for  several  miles  till  Tess,  arousing  herself,  looked 
about  her,  and  said,  timidly,  "Are  we  going  anywhere  in 
particular ! " 

"  I  don't  know,  dearest.     Why  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

''  Well,  we  might  walk  a  few  miles  farther,  and  when  it 
is  evening  find  lodgings  somewhere  or  other — in  a  lonely 
cottage,  perhaps.     Can  jou  walk  well,  Tessie  ? " 

'^  Oh  yes !  I  could  walk  for  ever  and  ever  with  youi*  arm 
round  me ! " 


444  TESS  OF  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

Upon  the  whole  it  seemed  a  good  thing  to  do.  There- 
iij)on  the}'  quickened  their  pace,  avoiding  high-roads,  and 
following  obscnre  paths  tending  more  or  less  northward. 
But  there  was  an  unpractical  vagueness  in  their  movements 
throughout  the  day :  neither  one  of  them  seemed  to  con- 
sider any  question  of  effectual  escape,  disguise,  or  long  con- 
cealment. Their  every  idea  was  temporar}^  and  unforef  end- 
ing, like  the  plans  of  two  children. 

At  midday  they  drew  near  to  a  roadside  inn,  and  Tess 
would  have  entered  it  with  him  to  get  something  to  eat, 
but  he  persuaded  her  to  remain  among  the  trees  and  bushes 
of  this  half -woodland,  half -moorland  part  of  the  country 
till  he  should  come  back.  Her  clothes  were  of  recent 
fashion-  even  the  ivory-handled  parasol  that  she  carried 
was  of  a  shape  unknown  in  the  retired  sj^ot  to  which  they 
had  now  wandered ;  and  the  cu.t  of  such  articles  would  have 
attracted  attention  in  the  settle  of  a  tavern.  He  soon  re- 
turned, with  food  enough  for  half  a  dozen  people,  and  two 
bottles  of  wine — enough  to  last  them  for  a  day  or  more, 
should  any  emergency  arise. 

They  sat  down  upon  some  dead  boughs  and  shared  their 
meal.  Between  one  and  two  o'clock  they  packed  up  the  re- 
mainder and  went  on  again. 

''  I  feel  strong  enough  to  walk  any  distance,"  said  she. 

''  I  think  we  may  as  well  steer  in  a  general  way  towards 
the  interior  of  the  countrv,  where  we  can  hide  for  a  time, 
and  are  less  likely  to  be  looked  for  than  anywhere  near  the 
coast,"  Clare  remarked.  ^^  Later  on,  when  they  have  for- 
gotten us,  we  can  make  for  some  port." 

She  made  no  reply  to  this  beyond  that  of  clas2)ing  him 
more  tightly,  and  straight  inland  they  went.  Though  the 
season  was  an  English  May,  the  weather  was  serenely 
bright,  and  during  the  afternoon  it  was  quite  warm. 
Through  the  latter  miles  of  their  walk'  their  footpath  had 
taken  them  into  the  deptlis  of  the  New  Forest,  and,  towards 
evening,  turning  the  corner  of  a  lane,  they  perceived  be- 


FULFIKMENT.  445 

hind  au  ornamental  gate  a  large  board  on  which  was  painted 
in  white  letters,  '^  This  desirable  Mansion  to  be  Let  Fiu*- 
nished  "  j  particnlars  following,  with  du'ections  to  appty  to 
some  London  agents.  Passing  through  the  gate  they  could 
see  the  house,  a  dignified  building,  of  regular  design  and 
large  accommodation. 

''  I  know  it,"  said  Clare.  ^'  It  is  Bramshui^st  Manor- 
house.  You  can  see  that  it  is  shut  up,  and  grass  is  growing 
on  the  drive." 

'^  Some  of  the  mndows  are  open,"  said  Tess. 

^'  Just  to  ail'  the  rooms,  I  suppose." 

"All  these  rooms  empty,  and  we  without  a  roof  to  our 
heads ! " 

"  You  are  getting  tii-ed,  my  Tess,"  he  said.  ''  We'll  stop 
soon."  And  Idssing  her  sad  mouth,  he  again  led  her  on- 
wards. 

He  was  growing  weary  likewise,  for  they  had  walked  not 
less  than  twenty  miles,  and  it  became  necessary  to  consider 
what  they  should  do  for  rest.  They  looked  from  afar  at 
isolated  cottages  and  little  inns,  and  were  inchned  to  ap- 
proach one  of  the  latter,  when  their  hearts  failed  them,  and 
they  sheered  off.  At  length  their  gait  dragged,  and  they 
stood  still. 

"  Could  we  sleep  under  the  trees?"  she  asked. 

He  thought  the  season  insufficiently  advanced.  "  I  have 
been  thinking  of  that  empty  mansion  we  passed,"  he  said. 
"  Let  us  go  back  towards  it  again." 

They  retraced  their  steps,  but  it  was  half  an  hour  before 
they  stood  without  the  entrance-gate  as  earlier.  He  then 
requested  her  to  stay  where  she  was,  whilst  he  went  to  see 
who  was  within. 

She  sat  down  among  the  bushes  within  the  gate,  and 
Clare  crept  towards  the  house.  His  absence  lasted  some 
considerable  time,  and  Tess  was  wildly  anxious,  not  for 
herself,  but  for  him.  He  had  found  out  from  a  boj^  that 
there  was  only  an  old  woman  in  charge  as  care-taker,  and 


446  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBER\T:LLES. 

she  only  came  tliere  on  fine  days,  from  the  liamlet  near,  to 
open  and  shut  the  mndows.  She  would  come  to  shut  them 
at  sunset.  '^  Now,  we  can  get  in  through  one  of  the  lower 
windows,  and  rest  there,"  said  he. 

Under  his  escort  she  went  tardily  forward  to  the  main 
front,  whose  shuttered  ^\dndows,  like  sightless  eyeballs,  ex- 
cluded the  possibility  of  watchers.  The  door  was  reached 
by  a  flight  of  steps,  and  one  of  the  ^vindows  beside  it  was 
open.     Clare  clambered  in,  and  pulled  Tess  in  after  him. 

Except  the  hall,  the  rooms  were  all  in  darkness,  and  they 
ascended  the  staircase.  Up  here  also  the  shutters  were 
tightly  closed,  the  ventilation  being  perfunctorily  done,  for 
the  day  at  least,  by  opening  the  hall  mndow  in  front  and 
an  upper  window  behind.  Clare  unlatched  the  door  of  a 
large  chamber,  felt  his  way  across  it,  and  parted  the  shut- 
ters to  the  width  of  two  or  three  inches.  A  shaft  of  daz- 
zling sunlight  glanced  into  the  room,  revealing  heavy,  old- 
fashioned  furniture,  crimson  damask  hangings,  and  an 
enormous  four-post  bedstead,  along  the  head  of  which  were 
carved  running  figures,  apparently  Atalanta's  race. 

"  Rest  at  last !  "  said  he,  setting  down  his  bag  and  the 
parcel  of  viands. 

They  remained  in  gi'cat  quietness  till  the  care-taker  should 
have  come  to  shut  the  windows ;  as  a  precaution,  putting 
themselves  in  total  darkness  bv  barrina:  the  shutters  as  be- 
fore,  lest  the  woman  should  open  the  door  of  their  chamber 
for  any  casual  reason.  Between  six  and  seven  o'clock  she 
came,  but  did  not  approach  the  wing  they  were  in.  They 
heard  her  close  the  windows,  fasten  them,  lock  the  door, 
and  go  away.  Then  Clare  again  stole  a  chink  of  light  from 
the  window,  and  they  shared  another  meal,  till  by  and  by 
they  were  enveloped  in  the  shades  of  night,  which  they  had 
no  candle  to  disperse. 


FULFIL3IENT.  447 


LVIII. 

The  night  was  strangely  solemn  and  still.  In  the  small 
hours  she  whispered  to  him  the  whole  story  of  how  he  had 
walked  in  his  sleep  with,  her  in  his  arms  across  the  Froom 
stream,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  both  their  hves,  and  laid 
her  doA\Ti  in  the  stone  coffin  at  the  ruined  abbey.  He  had 
never  known  of  that  till  now. 

^'  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  next  day  ? "  he  said.  ^'  It  might 
have  prevented  much  misunderstanding  and  woe." 

"  Don't  think  of  what's  past ! "  said  she.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  think  outside  of  now.  Why  should  we?  Who 
knows  what  to-morrow  has  in  store  ?  ^' 

But  it  apparently  had  no  sorrow.  The  morning  was  wet 
and  foggy,  and  Clare,  rightly  informed  that  the  care-taker 
only  opened  the  windows  on  fine  days,  ventured  to  creep 
out  of  then-  chamber  and  explore  the  house,  leavmg  Tess 
asleep.  There  was  no  food  on  the  premises,  but  there  was 
water,  and  he  took  advantage  of  the  fog  to  emerge  from 
the  mansion,  and  fetch  tea,  bread,  and  butter  from  a  shop 
in  the  little  town  two  miles  beyond,  as  also  a  small  tin  ket- 
tle and  spirit-lamp,  that  they  might  get  fii*e  mthout  smoke. 
His  re-entry  awoke  her ;  and  they  breakfasted  on  what  he 
had  brought. 

They  were  indisposed  to  stir  abroad,  and  the  day  passed, 
and  the  night  following,  and  the  next,  and  the  next;  tiU, 
almost  mthout  their  ])eing  aware,  five  days  had  slipped  by 
in  absolute  seclusion,  not  a  sight  or  sound  of  a  human 
being  disturbing  their  peacefulness,  such  as  it  was.  The 
changes  of  the  weather  were  their  only  events,  the  birds  of 
the  New  Forest  their  only  company.  By  tacit  consent  they 
hardly  once  spoke  of  any  incident  of  the  past  subsequent 
to  their  wedding-day.     The  gloomy  intervening  time  seemed 


448  TESS   OP   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

to  sink  into  eliaos,  over  which  the  present  and  prior  time;-; 
closed  as  if  it  never  had  been.  Whenever  he  snggested 
that  they  should  leave  theii-  shelter  Y.nd  go  forward  to- 
wards Southampton  or  London,  she  showed  a  strange  un- 
willingness to  move.  "Why  should  we  put  an  end  to  all 
that's  sweet  and  lovely !  "  she  deprecated.  "  What  must 
come  wiU  come."  And,  looking  through  the  shutter-chink, 
"■  All  is  trouble  outside  there ;  inside  here  content !  " 

He  peeped  out  also.  It  was  quite  true ;  mthin  was  af- 
fection, union,  error  forgiven  ;  outside  was  the  inexorable. 

"And — and,"  she  said,  pressing  her  cheek  against  his,  "I 
fear  what  you  think  o'  me  now  may  not  last.  I  do  not 
wish  to  outlive  youi'  present  feeling  for  me.  I  would  rather 
not.  I  would  rather  be  dead  and  buried  when  the  time 
comes  for  you  to  despise  me,  so  that  it  may  never  be  known 
to  me  that  you  despised  me." 

"  I  cannot  ever  despise  you." 

"I  also  hope  that.  But  considering  what  my  life  has 
been,  I  cannot  see  why  any  man  should,  sooner  or  later, 
be  able  to  heljD  despising  me.  .  .  .  How  mckedly  mad  I 
was !  Yet  formerly  I  never  could  bear  to  hurt  a  fly  or  a 
worm,  and  the  sight  of  a  bird  in  a  cage  used  often  to  make 


me  crv." 


They  remained  yet  another  day.  In  the  night  the  duU 
sky  cleared,  and  the  result  was  that  the  old  care-taker  at 
the  cottage  awoke  early.  The  brilliant  sunrise  made  her 
unusually  l)risk,  and  she  decided  to  open  the  contiguous 
mansion  immediate^,  and  to  air  it  thoroughly  on  such  a 
day.  Thus  it  occurred  that,  having  arrived  and  opened  the 
lowers  rooms  before  six  o'clock,  she  ascended  to  the  bed- 
chaml)ers,  and  was  about  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  one 
wherein  the}^  lay.  At  that  moment  she  fancied  she  could 
hear  the  l^reathiug  of  persons  within.  Her  slippers  and 
her  antiquity  had  rendered  her  progress  a  noiseless  one  so 
far,  and  she  made  for  instant  retreat;  then,  deeming  tliat 
her  hearing  might  have  deceived  her,  she  turned  anew  to 


FULFILIMENT.  449 

the  door,  and  softly  tried  the  handle.  The  lock  was  ont 
of  order,  bnt  a  piece  of  f urnitnre  had  been  moved  forward 
on  the  inside,  which  prevented  her  opening  the  door  more 
than  an  inch  or  two.  A  stream  of  morning  light  through 
the  shutter-chink  fell  upon  the  faces  of  the  pair,  ^^i-apped 
in  profound  slumber,  Tess's  lips  being  parted  like  a  half- 
open  flower  near  his  cheek.  The  care-taker  was  so  struck 
^vith  their  innocent  appearance,  and  with  the  elegance  of 
Tess's  gown  hanging  across  a  chair,  her  silk  stockings  be- 
side it,  and  the  other  hal)its  in  which  she  had  arrived,  be- 
cause she  had  none  else,  that  her  first  indignation  of  the 
effrontery  of  tramps  and  vagabonds  gave  way  to  a  momen- 
tary sentimentality  over  this  genteel  elopement,  as  it  seemed. 
She  closed  the  door,  and  withdrew  as  softly  as  she  had  come, 
to  go  and  consult  with  her  neighliors  on  the  odd  discovery. 

Not  more  than  a  minute  had  elapsed  after  her  withdi'awal 
when  Tess  woke,  and  then  Clare.  Both  had  a  sense  that 
something  had  disturbed  them,  though  they  could  not  say 
what  J  and  the  uneasy  feehng  which  it  engendered  grew 
stronger.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  he  narrowly  scanned 
the  lawn  through  the  two  or  three  inches  of  shutter-chink. 

^'  I  think  we  -will  leave  at  once,"  said  he.  ^'  It  is  a  fine  day. 
And  I  cannot  help  fancying  somebody  is  al)out  the  house. 
At  any  rate,  the  woman  will  be  sure  to  come  to-da3^" 

She  passively  assented,  and,  putting  the  room  in  order, 
they  took  up  the  few  articles  that  belonged  to  them,  and 
departed  noiselessly.  When  they  had  got  into  the  forest  she 
turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  house.  "Ah,  happy  house 
— good-by !  "  she  said.  "  My  life  can  only  be  a  question 
of  a  few  weeks.     Why  should  we  not  have  stayed  there ! " 

'•  Don't  say  it,  Tess  !  We  shall  soon  get  out  of  this  dis- 
trict altogether.  We'll  continue  our  course  as  we  have 
begun  it,  and  keep  straight  north.  Nobody  will  think  of 
looking  for  us  that  way.  We  shall  be  looked  for  at  the 
Wessex  ports  if  we  are  sought  at  all.  When  we  are  in  the 
north  we  will  get  to  a  port  and  away." 

29 


450  TESS   OP   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

Having  thus  persuaded  her  the  plan  was  pursued,  and 
they  kept  a  bee-line  northward.  Theii^  long  repose  at  the 
manor-house  lent  them  walking  power  now ;  and  towards 
midday  they  approached  the  steepled  city  of  Melchester, 
which  lay  directly  in  their  way.  He  decided  to  rest  her  in 
a  clump  of  trees  during  the  afternoon,  and  push  onward 
under  cover  of  darkness.  At  dusk  Clare  purchased  food  as 
usual,  and  their  night  march  began,  the  boundary  between 
Upper  and  Mid-Wessex  being  crossed  about  eight  o'clock. 

To  walk  across  country  without  much  regard  to  roads 
was  not  new  to  Tess,  and  she  showed  her  old  agility  in 
the  performance.  The  intercepting  city,  ancient  Melchester, 
they  were  obliged  to  pass  through  in  order  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  town  bridge  for  crossing  a  large  river  that  ob- 
structed them.  It  was  about  midnight  when  they  went 
along  the  deserted  street,  lighted  fitfully  by  their  few  lamps, 
keeping  off  the  pavement  that  it  might  not  echo  their  foot- 
steps. The  graceful  pile  of  cathedral  architecture  rose  on 
then-  right  hand,  but  it  was  lost  upon  them  now.  Once  out 
of  the  to'v\Ti  they  followed  the  turnpike  road,  which  plunged 
across  an  open  plain. 

Though  the  sky  was  dense  with  cloud,  a  diffused  light 
from  some  fragment  of  a  moon  had  hitherto  helped  them  a 
little.  But  the  moon  had  now  sunk,  the  clouds  seemed  to 
settle  almost  on  their  heads,  and  the  night  grew  as  dark  as 
a  cave.  However,  they  found  their  way  along,  keeping  as 
much  on  the  turf  as  possible,  that  their  tread  might  not 
resound,  which  it  was  easy  to  do,  there  being  no  hedge  or 
fence  of  any  kind.  ^1  around  was  open  loneliness  and 
black  solitude,  over  which  a  stiff  breeze  blew. 

They  had  proceeded  thus  gropingly  several  miles  when 
on  a  sudden  Clare  became  conscious  of  some  vast  erection 
close  in  his  front,  rising  sheer  from  the  grass.  They  had 
almost  struck  themselves  against  it. 

"  What  monstrous  place  is  this  ? "  said  Angel. 

''  It  hums,"  said  she.     ''  Hearken  ! '' 


rULFIL.^IENT.  451 

He  listened.  Tlie  wind,  playing  upon  tlie  edifice,  pro- 
duced a  booming  tune,  like  the  note  of  some  gigantic  one- 
stringed  harp.  No  other  sound  came  from  it,  and  lifting 
his  hand  and  advancing  a  step  or  two,  Clare  felt  the  vertical 
surface  of  the  wall.  It  seemed  to  be  of  solid  stone,  without 
joint  or  moulding.  Carrying  his  fingers  onward,  he  found 
that  what  he  had  come  in  contact  with  was  a  colossal  rect- 
angular pillar;  by  stretching  out  his  left  hand  he  could 
feel  a  similar  one  adjoining.  At  an  indefinite  height  over- 
head something  made  the  black  sky  blacker,  which  had  the 
semblance  of  a  vast  architrave  uniting  the  pillars  horizon- 
taUv.  They  carefully  entered  beneath  and  between ;  the  sur- 
faces  echoed  their  soft  rustle ;  but  they  seemed  to  be  still 
out-of-doors.  The  place  was  roofless.  Tess  drew  her  breath 
fearfully,  and  Angel,  perplexed,  said,  "What  can  it  be?" 

Feelino;  sideways,  they  encountered  another  tower-like 
pillar,  square  and  uncompromising  as  the  first ;  beyond  it 
another  and  another.  The  place  was  all  doors  and  pillars, 
some  connected  above  by  continuous  arcliitraves. 

"  A  very  Temple  of  the  Winds,"  he  said. 

The  next  pillar  was  isolated ;  others  composed  a  trilithon  ; 
others  were  prostrate,  their  flanks  forming  a  causeway  wide 
enough  for  a  carriage ;  and  it  was  soon  obvious  that  they 
made  up  a  forest  of  monoliths  grouped  upon  the  grassy 
expanse  of  the  plain.  The  couple  advanced  farther  into 
tills  pa^dhon  of  the  night,  till  they  stood  in  its  midst. 

"  It  is  Stonehenge  !  "  said  Clare. 

'^'  The  heathen  temple,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Older  than  the  centuries ;  older  than  the  D'Ur- 
berviUes.  WeU,  what  shall  we  do,  darling  ?  We  may  find 
shelter  farther  on." 

But  Tess,  really  tired  by  this  time,  flung  herself  upon  an 
oblong  slab  that  lay  close  at  hand,  and  was  sheltered  from 
the  ^vind  by  a  piUar.  Owing  to  the  action  of  the  sun  dur- 
ing the  preceding  day  the  stone  was  warm  and  dry,  in 
comforting  contrast  to  the  rough  and  chill  grass  around, 


452  TESS   OF  THE   D'UKBERVILLES. 

which  had  damped  her  skirts  and  shoes.  ^'  I  don^t  want  to 
go  any  farther,  Angel/^  she  said,  stretching  out  her  hand 
for  his.     '^  Can't  we  bide  here  ?  '^ 

"  I  fear  not.  This  spot  is  visible  for  miles  by  day,  al- 
though it  does  not  seem  so  now.'' 

'^  One  of  my  mother's  people  was  a  shepherd  hereabouts, 
now  I  think  of  it.  And  you  used  to  say  at  Talbothays  that 
I  was  a  heathen.     So  now  I  am  at  home." 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  outstretched  form,  and  put  his 
lips  upon  hers.  ^'  Sleepy  are  you,  dear  ?  I  thuik  you  are 
lying  on  an  altar." 

^' I  hke  very  much  to  be  here,"  she  murmured.  "It  is  so 
solemn  and  lonely — after  my  great  happiness — with  nothing 
but  the  sky  above  my  face.  It  seems  as  if  there  were  no 
folk  in  the  world  but  we  two ;  and  I  wish  there  were  not — 
except  'Liza  Lu." 

Clare  thought  she  might  as  well  rest  here  tiU  it  should 
get  a  little  hghter,  and  he  flung  his  overcoat  uj^on  her,  and 
sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  Angel,  if  anything  happens  to  me,  will  you  watch  over 
'Liza  Lu  for  my  sake  ? "  she  asked,  when  they  had  hstened 
a  long  time  to  the  mud  among  the  pillars. 

"  I  wiU." 

"  She  is  so  good  and  simple  and  pm'e.  O  Angel — I  wish 
you  would  marry  her  if  you  lose  me,  as  you  will  do  shortly. 
O,  if  you  would !  " 

"  If  I  lose  you  I  lose  aU !     And  she  is  my  sister-in-law." 

"  That's  nothing,  dearest.  People  marry  sister-laws  con- 
tinually about  Marlott ;  and  'Liza  Lu  is  so  gentle  and 
sweet.  O,  I  could  share  you  with  her  willingly  when  we 
are  spirits  !  If  you  woidd  train  her.  Angel,  and  bring  her 
up  for  your  own  self !  She  has  aU  the  best  of  me  without 
the  l)ad  of  me,  and  if  she  were  to  become  yours  it  would 
almost  seem  as  if  death  had  not  divided  us.  WeU,  I 
have  said  it.  I  won't  mention  it  again.  How  could  I  ex- 
pect it ! "     She  ceased,  and  he  fell  into  thought.     In  the 


FULFILMENT.  453 

far  northeast  sky  lie  could  see  between  the  pillars  a  level 
streak  of  light.  The  uniform  concavity  of  black  cloud  was 
hf  ting  bodily  like  the  lid  of  a  pot,  letting  in  at  the  earth's 
edge  the  coming  day,  against  which  the  towering  monolitlis 
and  trilithons  began  to  be  blackly  defined. 

''  Did  they  sacrifice  to  God  here  ? "  asked  she. 

"  No,"  said  he. 

^^ Who  to?" 

^'  I  believe  to  the  sun.  That  lofty  stone  set  away  by  itself 
is  in  the  dii-ection  of  the  sun,  which  ^vill  presently  rise  be- 
hind it." 

"  This  reminds  me,  dear,"  she  said.  ^'  You  remember  you 
never  would  interfere  with  any  behef  o'  mine  before  we 
were  married  ?  But  I  knew  your  mind  all  the  same,  and  I 
thought  as  you  thought — not  from  any  reasons  o'  my  own, 
but  because  you  thought  so.  Tell  me  now,  Angel,  do  you 
think  we  shall  meet  again  after  we  are  dead  ?  I  want  to 
know." 

He  kissed  her  to  avoid  a  reply  at  such  a  time. 

"  O  Angel — I  fear  that  means  no  !  "  said  she,  "vvith  a  sup- 
pressed sob.  ''And  I  wanted  so  to  see  you  again — so 
much,  so  much !  What — not  even  you  and  I,  Angel,  who 
love  each  other  so  well  ? " 

Like  a  greater  than  himself,  to  the  critical  question  at 
the  critical  time  he  did  not  answer ;  and  they  were  again 
silent.  In  a  minute  or  two  her  breathing  became  more 
regular,  her  clasp  of  his  hand  relaxed,  and  she  fell  asleep. 
The  band  of  silver  paleness  along  the  east  horizon  made 
even  the  distant  parts  of  the  Great  Plain  appear  dark  and 
near ;  and  the  whole  enormous  landscape  bore  that  impress 
of  reserve,  taciturnity,  and  hesitation  which  is  usual  just 
before  day.  The  eastward  pillars  and  their  architraves 
stood  up  blackly  against  the  light,  and  the  great  flame- 
shaped  Sun-stone  beyond  them ;  and  the  stone  of  sacrifice 
midway.  Presently  the  night  wind  died  out,  and  the  quiv- 
ering little  pools  in  the  cup-hke  hollows  of  the  stones  lay 


454  TESS   OF   THE   D'URBERVILLES. 

still.  At  the  same  time  something  seemed  to  move  on  the 
verge  of  the  dip  eastward — a  mere  dot.  It  was  the  head 
of  a  man  approaching  them  from  the  hollow  beyond  the 
Sun-stone.  Clare  wished  they  had  gone  onward,  but  in  the 
circumstances  decided  to  remain  quiet.  The  figure  came 
straight  towards  the  circle  of  pillars  in  which  they  were. 

He  heard  something  behind  him,  the  brush  of  feet. 
Turning,  he  saw  over  the  prostrate  column  another  figure ; 
then,  before  he  was  aware,  another  was  at  hand  on  the 
right,  under  a  trilithon,  and  another  on  the  left.  The  dawn 
shone  full  on  the  front  of  the  man  westward,  and  Clare 
could  discern  from  this  that  he  was  tall,  and  walked  as  if 
trained.  They  all  closed  in  with  evident  pui'pose.  Her 
story  then  was  true !  Springing  to  his  feet,  he  looked 
around  for  a  weapon,  means  of  escape,  anything.  By  this 
time  the  nearest  man  was  upon  him. 

'^  It  is  no  use,  sir,"  he  said.  "  There  are  sixteen  of  us  on 
the  Plain,  and  the  whole  country  is  reared." 

^^Let  her  finish  her  sleep !  "  he  implored  in  a  whisper  of 
the  men  as  they  gathered  round. 

AYlien  they  saw  where  she  lay,  which  they  had  not  done 
till  then,  they  showed  no  objection,  and  stood  watching 
her,  as  still  as  the  pillars  around.  He  went  to  the  stone, 
and  bent  over  her,  holding  one  poor  little  hand ;  her  breath- 
ing now  was  quick  and  smaU,  like  that  of  a  lesser  creature 
than  a  woman.  All  waited  in  the  growing  light,  their  faces 
and  hands  as  if  they  were  silvered,  the  remainder  of  their 
figures  dark,  the  stones  glistening  a  green-gi^ay,  the  Plain 
stin  a  mass  of  shade.  Soon  the  light  was  strong,  and  a 
ray  shone  upon  her  unconscious  form,  peering  under  her 
eyelids  and  Avaking  her. 

'^  AVIiat  is  it,  Angel  ? "  she  said,  starting  up.  ^^  Have  they 
come  for  me  ? " 

^'  Yes,  dearest,"  he  said.     "  They  have  come." 

^'  It  is  as  it  should  be,"  she  murmured.  ^'  Angel,  I  am 
almost  glad — yes,  glad !     This  happiness  could  not  have 


FULFIOIENT.  455 

lasted.  It  was  too  niucli.  I  have  had  enough ;  and  now  I 
shall  not  live  for  you  to  despise  me  !  " 

She  stood  np,  shook  herself,  and  went  forward,  neither 
of  the  men  having  moved. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said,  quietly. 


LIX. 

The  city  of  Wintoncester,  that  fine  old  city,  aforetime 
capital  of  Wessex,  lay  amidst  its  convex  and  concave  down- 
lands  in  all  the  brightness  and  warmth  of  a  July  morning. 
The  gabled  brick-and-tile  and  freestone  houses  had  almost 
dried  off  for  the  season  their  integiiment  of  hchen,  the 
streams  in  the  meadows  were  low,  and  in  the  sloping  High 
Street,  from  the  West  Gateway  to  the  mediaeval  cross,  and 
from  the  mediaeval  cross  to  the  bridge,  that  leisurely  dust- 
ing and  sweeping  was  in  progress  which  usually  ushers  in 
an  old-fashioned  market-day. 

From  the  western  gate  aforesaid  the  highway,  as  every 
Wintoncestrian  knows,  ascends  a  long  and  regular  incline 
of  the  exact  length  of  a  measured  mile,  leaving  the  houses 
graduall}^  behind.  Up  this  road  from  the  precincts  of  the 
city  two  persons  were  walking  rapidly,  as  if  unconscious  of 
the  tr^dng  ascent — unconscious  through  preoccupation,  and 
not  through  buoyancy.  They  had  emerged  upon  this  road 
through  a  narrow  barred  wicket  in  a  high  wall  a  little  lower 
down.  They  seemed  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  sight  of  the 
houses  and  of  their  kind,  and  this  road  appeared  to  offer 
the  quickest  means  of  doing  so.  Though  they  were  young, 
they  walked  with  bowed  heads,  which  gait  of  grief  the  sun's 
rays  smiled  on  pitilessly. 

One  of  the  paii^  was  Angel  Clare,  the  other  a  tall,  slim, 
budding  creature — half  girl,  half  woman — a  spiritualized 


456  TESS  OP  THE  D'URBERVILLES. 

image  of  Tess,  slighter  than  she,  but  with  the  same  beauti- 
ful eyes — Clare's  sister-in-law,  'Liza  Lu.  Their  pale  faces 
seemed  to  have  slu-unk  to  haK  their  natural  size.  They  moved 
on  hand  in  hand,  and  never  spoke  a  w^ord,  the  drooping  of 
their  heads  being  that  of  Giotto's  "  Two  Apostles." 

Wlien  they  had  nearly  reached  the  top  of  the  great  West 
Hill  the  clocks  in  the  town  struck  eight.  Each  gave  a  start 
at  the  notes,  and,  walking  onward  yet  a  few  steps,  they 
rea(3hed  the  fii^st  mile-stone,  standing  whitely  on  the  gi-een 
margin  of  the  grass,  and  backed  by  the  down,  which  here 
was  open  to  the  road.  Thej^  entered  upon  the  tiu'f,  and, 
impelled  by  a  force  which  seemed  to  overrule  their  will,  sud- 
denly stood  still,  turned,  and  waited  in  paralyzed  suspense 
behind  the  stone. 

The  j)rospect  from  this  summit  was  almost  unlimited. 
In  the  valley  beneath  lay  the  city  they  had  just  left,  its 
more  prominent  buildings  showing  as  in  an  isometric 
drawing — among  them  the  broad  cathedral  tower,  with  its 
Norman  windows  and  immense  length  of  aisle  and  nave, 
the  spires  of  St.  Thomas's,  the  pinnacled  tower  of  the  Col- 
lege, and,  more  to  the  right,  the  tower  and  gables  of  the 
ancient  hospice,  where  to  this  day  the  pilgrim  may  receive 
his  dole  of  bread  and  ale.  Behind  the  city  swept  the  rotund 
upland  of  St.  Catherine's  Hill  5  farther  off,  landscape  be- 
yond landscape,  till  the  horizon  was  lost  in  the  radiance  of 
the  sun  hanging  above  it. 

Against  these  far  stretches  of  country  rose,  in  front  of 
the  other  city  edifices,  a  large  red-brick  building,  with  level 
gray  roofs,  and  rows  of  short  barred  windows  bespeaking 
captivity,  the  whole  contrasting  greatly  by  its  formalism 
with  the  quaint  irregularities  of  the  Gothic  erections.  It 
was  somewhat  disguised  from  the  road  in  passing  it  by 
yews  and  evergreen  oaks,  but  it  was  visible  enough  up  here. 
The  wicket  from  which  the  pair  had  lately  emerged  was  in 
the  waU  of  this  structure.  From  the  middle  of  the  l)uil(l- 
ing  an  ugly  flat-toj^ped  octagonal  tower  ascended  against 


FULFILTHENT.  457 

the  east  horizon,  and  viewed  from  this  spot,  on  its  shady 
side  and  against  the  light,  it  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the 
city's  beauty.  Yet  it  was  with  this  blot,  and  not  with  the 
beauty,  that  the  two  gazers  were  concerned. 

Upon  the  cornice  of  the  tower  a  tall  staff  was  fixed. 
Their  eyes  were  riveted  on  it.  A  few  minutes  after  the 
hour  had  struck  something  moved  slowly  up  the  staff,  and 
extended  itself  upon  the  breeze.     It  was  a  black  flag. 

"Justice"  was  done,  and  the  President  of  the  Immortals 
(in  ^schylean  phrase)  had  ended  his  sport  mth  Tess.  And 
the  D'Urver\dlle  knights  and  dames  slept  on  in  their  tombs 
unknowing.  The  two  speechless  gazers  bent  themselves 
down  to  the  earth,  as  if  in  prayer,  and  remained  thus  a 
long  time,  absolutely  motionless;  the  flag  continued  to 
wave  silently.     As  soon  as  they  had  strength  they  arose, 

joined  hands  again,  and  went  on. 

80 


THE    END. 


^'^TOO^S!? 


*'•  S.  SMITH  &  CO., 
oks  and  Pictures, 
I '54  Broad  w  a V. 


